


Dropping Anchor

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:18:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8945083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: As if returning home penniless and heartbroken isn’t bad enough, the last thing Emma needs is for her mom to get her a job – and for her future boss to pull her out of the harbor before she even knows his name. But Killian Jones has never been afraid of the water...





	1. Chapter 1

Being back in Storybrooke is familiar and it should be comforting, but everywhere Emma Swan looks, she sees the bad choices that landed her in this mess.

 

Broke.

 

Living with her parents.

 

Twenty-five and starting completely over.

 

If only she could go back in time and tell her eighteen year old self that dropping out of college to follow her boyfriend’s band around the country was a _terrible_ idea; that said boyfriend would develop a drug problem, that he would begin stealing to fund his addiction, and that one day she would find herself picking up a payphone – a _freaking_ payphone – to call her father in tears from a truck stop in the middle of Texas with a rapidly swelling dose of reality on her face.

 

Just over twenty-four hours later, she’s back in her father’s beat up pickup, the scent of cracked leather and gasoline wrapping around her like a childhood blanket. It’s a cool afternoon in Maine, and after the Texas heat, she’s shivering before they’ve even left the airport despite it still – technically – being summer.

 

And like nothing ever changed, David reaches into the narrow backseat and silently offers her his old flannel coat, his scent mingling with wood smoke on the worn sheepskin lining. Burrowed into the coat, the soft plaid under her nose, it almost seems like maybe coming home is a good idea.

 

Before her mother’s pursed lips and thinly veiled judgments.

 

Before the not-so-subtle hints that Emma got herself into this mess and it’s time to be an adult.

 

Before the humiliating announcement that Mary Margaret called in a favor and got Emma a job before the week is out.

 

The job is the last straw, and the end of that conversation sees Emma down by the harbor, desperate for a bit of solitude and peace. Her eyes fall shut as she steps onto the dock, the sun warm on her skin. Summer’s lazy days are fading into the golden haze of fall, the brine of the ocean beyond the harbor carrying on the faint breeze. Soon she’ll be able to see her breath like clouds of smoke puffing out in front of her with every step she takes, and the brilliantly bright sun she’s grown accustomed to several latitudes south will give way to the watery, muted light of winter in Maine.

 

For now, it’s pleasantly hot, the days still clinging to the last of summer, the water sparkling. And if she just keeps her eyes closed, each meandering step along the dock takes her back in time, until she’s sixteen without a care in the world giggling over the vodka Ruby Lucas swiped from her grandmother.

 

Before she met Neal.

 

Before she couldn’t talk to her mother without feeling the woman’s acute disappointment.

 

Before she carried with her the ever-present shame of having been hoodwinked so thoroughly by a man who was supposed to love her, who she gave up everything for.

 

The sudden loss of her footing and the staggering cold of the water provides an abrupt return to the present.

 

With a great deal of splashing and sputtering, Emma manages to shove her head above the surface, gasping for air as the frigid water steals her breath. It might be September, but the water this far north is never exactly warm, and after three days of rain, someone might as well have thrown ice cubes into it. Panic rises in her throat at the sensation of steel bands wrapped tight around her lungs, the piercing cold robbing what little breath she has.

 

“Bloody hell.”

 

Emma squints into the bright sunlight, her thoughts muddled as she follows the voice to a man standing on the dock. With the sun behind him, he’s little more than a dark shadow of jeans and a black shirt, but he’s there, and she opens her mouth to ask him where the hell all the ladders went, but he’s already bellowing what sounds like, _Liam, fetch a bloody ladder this instant!_

 

The shout is followed by a splash, another round of colorful cursing reaching her just before warm arms. “I’ve got you, lass,” he says in her ear, and Emma is too dumbfounded to do more than stare into the bluest eyes she’s ever seen, the weight of her water-logged jeans dragging against the hold he has on her.

 

In some far off place, Emma begins to wonder if maybe she hit her head on her way into the water.

 

There’s a flurry of movement, more splashing, more cursing, and then she’s being hauled onto the dock, all but collapsing against the person who must be Liam and blinking stupidly.

 

“Is she drunk?” he asks, his exasperation so clear it cuts right through her muddled thoughts.

 

“Seems to have hit her head.” This voice is gentler, the one that saved her, and she reaches feebly for him. Footsteps on the dock, the dripping of water, and his voice drifts just out of reach. “Let’s get her inside and have a look. Might need to run her over to see Whale.”

 

“How did she even fall in?”

 

“Tripped over the ropes, I suspect from the state of them. I’ve _told_ Liam to mind them, but the lad has his head in the bloody clouds.”

 

 _Liam?_ Emma squints against the pain blooming over her eye. Maybe she really did hit her head, because she’s under the impression the man carrying her toward the old boathouse _is_ Liam.

 

A warm hand against her cheek draws her attention away from the puzzle, the touch gentle. “The water is bloody freezing. We’d best get her dry.”

 

“Best call the sheriff.” The voice above her is resigned, weary, as though Emma’s mishap with the harbor is ruining his day. If she weren’t so foggy, she would have something to say about that.

 

“The _sheriff_?”

 

“Aye, little brother. Don’t you know who you’ve pulled from the harbor?”

 

“She’s…? Bollocks.”

 

It’s almost pleasant, the haze that takes over, as though Emma is in a dream world. The conversation taking place above her fades into the low rumble of voices as she’s jostled from one set of arms to another, and she sighs, enveloped in warmth. For the first time in a long time, it’s okay to relax, to just _trust_ that whatever is going on, she’ll be okay.

 

“What the hell are you doing with my daughter?”

 

David’s voice breaks through the fog, and Emma struggles to focus on her father. He’s never been prone to losing his temper, but there’s a dangerous menace in his voice, and Emma belatedly realizes she’s wrapped in a blanket sitting on a man’s lap.

 

The fact that her teeth are no longer chattering makes it hard to care where she sits.

 

“Listen, mate, before you get your knickers in a twist, the lass fell into the harbor. We fetched her out.”

 

“She _fell_ in? Emma has been on these docks since she was ten. There’s no way she fell in.”

 

“Be that as it may, the evidence would indicate otherwise.” There’s tension in the answer, a thrum of anger and resentment she can’t place, and when he moves to stand, Emma clings to him. She doesn’t want to give up this warm, content place where the world can’t touch her, where this mysterious man jumped into the water after her. His sigh washes over her, his voice surprisingly gentle as he disentangles her fingers from his damp shirt. “You’re all right, love. Your father’s here to see you home.”

 

Emma does her best to mumble a reply, but she’s too damn tired to form the words. As the world around her fades to black, the last thing she hears is the rare sound of her father swearing.

 

-x-

 

“Well, the concussion explains why I feel drunk.” Emma would laugh, but it would probably just hurt, so she settles for a slow shrug of her shoulders instead. “Kind of fits, doesn’t it?”

 

“Emma, please.” Mary Margaret shoots her a look from the other side of the kitchen island before pushing a mug of cocoa across the counter. “What were you even doing down there?”

 

She shrugs again, idly dipping her finger into the whipped cream and swirling it around. “I wanted to go check out the bar you got me a job at.” It comes out far more bitter than she intends.

 

“It’s not forever.” Mary Margaret hesitates, and then sighs as she stirs her tea. “You _could_ go work with your father.”

 

“Seriously?” Emma shakes her head violently, immediately regretting the move as the room wobbles. They’ve talked about this more than once. “It’s bad enough everyone knows I’m back here, living with you guys.”

 

“It’s not—“

 

“Yeah, Mom, I know.”

 

Emma doesn’t say the rest – doesn’t say that it _feels_ like forever, like she’s falling into a bottomless pit of failures and inadequacies, not just the icy harbor. That her mother means well – she _always_ means well – but calling in a favor to get Emma a waitressing job at a tourist bar at the end of the season doesn’t really help. They’ll probably just lay her off in a month anyway when the leaf chasers have come and gone, but Emma doesn’t say that either.

 

She just takes her cocoa to the couch and watches the returning rain slide down the windowpanes before disappearing under the ledge, one empty promise after another.

 

-x-

 

The Dropped Anchor turns out to be the old boathouse, remodeled and retrofitted into a bar with a sprawling deck over the water. Emma stops outside the intricately carved door, wiping her hands on her jeans and glancing up at the cheerful sign. There’s something oddly familiar about the place, but telling herself that of course there is – the damn boathouse has been here as long as she’s lived in Storybrooke – Emma tells herself to get a grip, straightens her spine, and marches into the bar.

 

Where she runs smack into a kid with an armload of dirty glasses.

 

They crash to the ground in a cacophony of shattered glass, and Emma lets loose a string of curses that probably would have made even Neal blush, never mind the kid. “You okay?” she manages to ask the boy, no more than fifteen by her best guess, as she gingerly finds a spot to put her hand to shove herself off the floor.

 

First she arrives in town with a black eye because she was too stupid to get out of things with Neal _before_ he finally lashed out at her in a blind rage.

 

Then she falls into the goddamn harbor and has to be pulled out by some guy whose name she doesn’t know, earning herself a concussion in the process.

 

 _Then_ she arrives for her first shift at the bar where her _mother_ got her a job as a favor from the owner and assaults the busboy within the first thirty seconds – never mind the broken glasses that will need to be replaced.

 

To her surprise, the boy laughs, glancing around at the mess. The bar is nearly empty, unsurprising given it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. “You must be Emma. I’m Liam.”

 

That gets her attention, but before she can connect the dots, a very familiar voice grumbles _bloody hell_ behind her.

 

“Christ, Liam, first the ropes and now the glasses!” It’s half exasperation and half amusement, and when Emma finally manages to twist herself around, she finds the man who jumped into the harbor after her stooping down to offer her his hand. “I apologize for my brother, lass.”

 

“It wasn’t his fault,” she replies automatically, offering a weak smile to the boy before getting to her feet, ignoring the hand. She has a sinking suspicion her rescuer and her employer are one and the same, and if she thinks her day can’t get any more humiliating, she’s very, _very_ wrong. “Look, I’m sorry about the glasses. I’ll pay for them. Or something.”

 

The last thing she expects is for him to laugh, his blue eyes twinkling merrily in the soft lights. “No need for that. I’m certain you’ll break plenty more if you’re to work here.”

 

“I’m not an idiot,” she snaps, his amusement at her expense raising her hackles. Being here is already backing her into a corner, and while a tiny, logical part of her knows he means nothing by it, Emma’s nerves are hanging by a thread. “It was an accident.”

 

“You seem to be rather prone to accidents. Perhaps we ought to give the insurance bloke a ring?” His lifted brow and knowing smile-bordering-on-a-smirk only irritate her further, and she’s about to tell him _exactly_ what she thinks about him and his stupidly blue eyes when a throat clears.

 

“If the two of you are quite through, perhaps we could clean up the mess before someone cuts themselves?” It's a man’s voice, and an exasperated one at that – fully exasperated, no amusement to be found.

 

It’s only when she turns to tell him she doesn’t need his help either that Emma realizes it’s the other man from the dock. The one who shares the same stupidly blue eyes as her tormenter.

 

_Brothers._

 

Emma doesn’t have siblings. It’s never bothered her – most days she counts herself lucky to have parents – but there’s something about the way these men interact that makes her suddenly wish for that bond, despite the older one’s sour mood.

 

“Little brother has likely been too rude to introduce himself. I’m Liam Jones.” He holds out his hand to her with a welcoming smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nodding at the slightly younger man. “He’s Killian. We own the place.”

 

Emma takes his hand, but her eyes dart to the kid now sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan. “Wait, he said he was Liam. Is he…are you his father?” That doesn’t really make sense either, considering she’s already been told the kid is brothers with the guy behind her, but she has a hard time piecing together the relationship with the duplicate names.

 

The brothers exchange a silent glance between them, the air suddenly heavy as the kid fidgets. Emma can taste the bitterness of secrets and old betrayals in the air, has lived with those wounds, but she doesn’t know what to say to take back her question.

 

“In a fashion,” the elder Liam says after a moment’s hesitation, his hand releasing hers and landing on the younger boy’s shoulder. “He’s my brother. Our father…”

 

“Had a penchant for drink and a peculiar sense of humor,” Killian says when Liam seems unable to find the words to finish his thought. And Emma recognizes that too – the pain and the resentment of a deep-seated hurt, a wound that’s never really healed.

 

“Yes,” Liam finally says after an awkward pause, another silent exchange passing between the men that's all shadowed eyes and tight jaws. “Well, now that we’ve all been properly introduced, shall I show you around the place? I hope you’ve recovered from your mishap.”

 

Emma nods, carefully stepping over the glass to follow the eldest Jones. Strangely enough, despite his matter-of-fact attitude about her accident serving as a direct contrast to the ribbing Killian was just giving her, she finds she’d rather be teased. But she doesn’t look back, despite the fact that she can _feel_ him standing behind her, something about his presence begging her to turn around.

 

As Liam begins to show her the layout of the tables, Emma very sternly tells herself that whatever attraction she feels is purely a product of Killian hauling her out of the ocean, some sort of biological programming she should ignore. She doesn’t need a white knight, and she _really_ doesn’t need to get tangled up with her employer no matter how strong the memory of his arms around her suddenly becomes, or how certain she is that the obnoxiously attractive bartender and she are far more alike than she would prefer.

 

-x-

 

He isn’t there when she arrives for her first real shift, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief as she ties her apron into place and shoves an order pad into a pocket with a pen. She did a decent job of avoiding Killian her first night, forcing herself to resolutely focus on Liam and his instructions despite the increasingly heavy weight of Killian’s stare on her back.

 

But any relief is short lived as the bar starts to fill up and the locals crowd around the one flat screen TV in the place. The Patriots are playing, and Emma doesn’t give a shit about football, but most of the people in Storybrooke do. They _also_ give a shit about which beers are on tap, and Emma can’t for the life of her remember them all despite there only being a half dozen.

 

“It’s the cider, love. You always forget the cider.” Killian grins at her from behind the bar when she arrives with an order for Leroy and his buddies from the quarry. Evidentially he’s been watching her or eavesdropping or both. “Isn’t your mum a teacher? Apples and teachers, aye? Easy enough to remember.”

 

“Seriously? Can you just pour the beer?” Emma rolls her eyes, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “No one in this crowd cares about cider anyway.”

 

“Aye, this rubbish, probably not. But Liam insists we keep a gluten free option for the wankers infesting the town all summer.” Killian’s grin only widens as he begins to pour the beers, taking his sweet time about it if she’s not mistaken. “But Liam and I brew up a batch every fall, and that, love, that is a very fine thing.”

 

“Whatever you say.” Emma rolls her eyes again, pushing her hair off her shoulders and cursing her decision to leave it down. The bar isn't that big, but she's hot from carting beer around – definitely from carting beer around and not at all from Killian’s not-so-subtle perusal of her body and blatant invitation.

 

“We were planning to open a bottle after closing tonight, celebrate a bit.”

 

“And I care because?” she snaps, firmly shoving aside the part of her that would _very_ much like to celebrate any number of things with Killian.

 

The glance he gives her falls somewhere between disbelief and annoyance, his brows knit together as he concentrates on filling the last glass. “We intended to celebrate your joining us,” he finally says as he sets the last beer on her tray, an edge in his voice despite the smile he offers her. “Perhaps get to know each other a bit.”

 

“Oh.” Emma flushes as she realizes she’s being pretty rude, and for no other reason than her own discomfort with her body’s reaction to his proximity. Hooking up with the boss is definitely a bad idea, but pissing him off isn’t so wise either, so she plasters a smile on her face and nods. “Of course. Not big on cider but I’ll try it.”

 

He looks like he wants to say something else, but she doesn’t give him the opportunity, scooping up the tray and hurrying away as fast as she can manage without spilling the drinks everywhere.

 

But if she thinks that’s the last of it, she’s very, very wrong.

 

“How’s your head?” he asks the next time she finds herself waiting for another round of drinks for the large group.

 

“My head?”

 

He lifts a brow at her, gesturing with his free hand to the bruise faintly visible beneath a thick layer of concealer. “From your dip in the harbor last week.”

 

“I wouldn’t have _been_ in the harbor if your brother hadn’t left rope all over the dock.” Emma ignores that her eyes were closed and it was her own damn fault she pitched herself into the water. Admitting that to Killian won’t help anything.

 

“Even if Liam were to blame for sending you in, I did fetch you out.” He sets down one of the mugs filled to the brim and reaches for another, slowly filling it while grinning at her. “A dashing rescue, if I do say so myself.”

 

“I don’t need rescuing,” she tells him with a scowl.

 

“Yet _rescue_ you I did.” Her glare does nothing to deter him, and unless she’s very much mistaken, he’s _enjoying_ this.

 

And she knows he’s teasing, knows he’s just trying to get a rise out of her, but his words crawl under her skin and stay there, seething just beneath the surface as her blood boils. She’s met so many men who don’t give a shit what she does or doesn’t want, men that won’t listen to what she has to say.

 

Emma is _done_ giving a shit about other people’s opinions on what she does or doesn’t want, what she does or doesn’t need. And if Killian weren’t sort of her boss – she’s pretty sure Liam calls the shots, but blood is blood – she would tell him exactly where to shove his rescue.

 

Instead she says nothing, and when he actually looks a little hurt, she expects to feel victory.

 

But she doesn’t.

 

-x-

 

“I need to quit,” Emma announces after her fourth shot of tequila huddled in a back booth in Granny’s diner. She’s been there for almost an hour with Ruby and Elsa, and if their drinks were in coffee mugs instead of shot glasses, it really would be like she was a teenager again. “I _really_ need to quit.”

 

Ruby twists her carefully painted lips into a smirk, swallowing her own shot before laughing. “No, honey, you need to stay right where you are. Those Jones brothers are delicious, and _you_ have a front row seat.”

 

“It’s not like there’s a lot of available jobs,” Elsa adds, ever the practical one. Her shot glass remains full in front of her, though to be fair, it’s the third shot, and she’s never been as quick to drown her problems in liquor as her two friends. “Unless you want to go work with your dad.”

 

“Maybe I should,” Emma grumbles, toying with the now-empty glass and debating if another one is really a great idea. The french-fries are sopping up some of the liquor, but she’s probably moments away from the fine line between drunk and shitfaced. “Why didn’t I stay in Texas?”

 

“Because Neal is an asshole,” Ruby replies at the same moment Elsa says, “Because the people who love you are here.” The two woman glance at each other, laughing quietly at their different though no less heartfelt responses to Emma’s question.

 

“Is it really that bad?” Elsa asks sympathetically, taking Emma’s hand and squeezing. “I've known the Jones brothers for a long time, and they're both great guys.”

 

“It’s awful.” Emma groans, dropping her head onto her arm and taking a deep breath. All she can smell is the industrial cleaner Granny uses on the tables, but she stays where she is. “It’s _miserable_ ,” she mumbles, but the words get eaten by the tabletop and Ruby taps one manicured nail against her hair until Emma sits back up, blinking a few times until her friends come back into focus. “He’s just so…stupid.”

 

“Stupid?”

 

“Which one?”

 

Emma glares at her friends, Ruby’s mockery and Elsa’s too-innocent question earning her equal ire. “Yes, _stupid_. Stupid blue eyes. Stupid accent. Stupid flirting from his stupid face.” She pauses in her tirade, narrowing her eyes at Elsa. “And you know _who_. Liam – the older one – he only flirts with _you_.”

 

“If you can’t come up with a better insult than _stupid_ I think you’ve had enough tequila,” Elsa retorts, though her cheeks flush quickly, pale skin hiding nothing. As usual, she completely ignores the implication that Liam wants to do more than serve her up a glass of wine when she stops by the bar after work.

 

Emma scoffs, snatching Elsa’s vodka shot and downing it herself. “I need to quit.”

 

“Just sleep with him and get it over with.”

 

“ _Ruby!_ ”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s not a solution!”

 

“Why not? You said he’s hot and he flirts with you like crazy. What’s the problem?”

 

Even in her growing inebriation, Emma can’t fathom Ruby’s logic. “His brother owns the bar? I work for him? It’s weird,” she insists, though she's not drunk enough to be able to deny she's trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

 

“Only if you make it weird.” Ruby grins, running her tongue along her bottom lip. “Just think of all the dirty at work sex. In the stockroom. On the bar. Or on the tables after closing. Or—“

 

“Seriously?” Emma interrupts, her temper beginning to flare. What is _with_ everyone and their opinions on her life? “You want me to fuck him and then turn back up the next day like nothing happened? With his _brothers_ right there? Are you out of your–”

 

“I think what Ruby is trying to say is that he might make you happy,” Elsa cuts in, leaving Ruby and Emma locked in a silent battle of wills. “And we just want you to be happy.” She punctuates her sentence with a jab of her elbow into Ruby’s ribs, but the brunette doesn't so much as blink.

 

“He doesn’t make me happy.” Emma gives Ruby one final glare and pulls a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “I need to go home. And then quit.”

 

She manages to leave the diner without further incident, but home is the last place Emma wants to be. She’s been staying out later and later, walking through town and down by the harbor, out on the seawall, anywhere she can get away from her parents’ suffocating concern. They mean well – and she gave them quite a scare turning up with a black eye she refused to explain but wasn’t hard to figure out– but Emma can’t _breathe_ in their loft. They both want so badly for her to be okay that neither of them can see all that pressure is suffocating her under a mountain of expectations. She can't just snap her fingers and suddenly be a well-adjusted adult, and the guilt at disappointing them is a heavy burden piled on top of her failures.

 

It’s a chilly night, but for the time being, alcohol keeps her warm as she wanders down toward the docks, the lights from The Dropped Anchor spilling merrily onto the boards. She gives the bar a wide berth, heading in the opposite direction. Above her, the sky stretches in a cloudless sprawl of velvety night, and if memory serves, the slips at the far end are usually vacant by this time of year. It’s been a long time since she’s laid out under the stars with nothing but the lap of the waves and her thoughts for company, but it’s a good night to do it again. Maybe the stars have answers.

 

Except when she reaches the right dock, there’s a shadow at the end, and through some instinct that she wishes she didn’t possess, Emma knows it’s Killian before he turns to see who has joined him in his solitude. “Evening, Swan,” he calls, his voice oddly hoarse, as though he’s been silent for a long time.

 

She should walk away, pretend she hasn’t heard him, but she’s standing there, and their eyes meet, and it’s not like it is in the bar where something about him brings out the worst in her. Out in the dark surrounded by the harbor, she’s drawn to him, and before she knows it, her boots have carried her to the end of the dock and he’s offering her a hand to steady herself as she takes a seat with her legs hanging off the edge, the water shimmering below their feet. She holds onto his hand longer than she should, his bare skin warm against hers despite the chill in the air.

 

He doesn’t say anything, merely offers her a dented flask, rum on his breath. He must smell the tequila on her, but if he does, it doesn’t stop him, and Emma figures adding rum into the mix can’t hurt anything, so she takes it. Between the cold and the walk, her inebriation level has dropped back into pleasantly drunk and she intends to stay there.

 

She expects him to ask what she’s doing out here, why she’s drunk on a Sunday night, why she’s such a bitch to him, why why why… but he doesn’t. And the silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not awkward either, the two of them hovering together in a sort of void where they just _exist_ together in the night.

 

In the end, the spell is broken by her shiver. He notices – of course he notices – and he offers her the flask again, but he also slides his arm around her shoulders. They’re already sitting pretty close together, and Emma shouldn’t, but she’s drunk and he’s warm, and maybe, maybe she _does_ want him. Maybe she wants to curl up in the scent of leather and liquor and the sea and his soap and breathe him in. Maybe she just wants to not care about his brother’s vague hostility, or Ruby’s insistence that sex would solve everything. So she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes and relaxes into him, but she doesn’t say anything and neither does he.

 

It could be an hour, it could be two, but eventually a yawn slips out, and Killian stirs beside her. “It’s late, love.” His voice is rough, quiet and without the usual underlying hint of amusement that seems to perpetuate their conversations. “Allow me to walk you home.”

 

“You don’t have to,” she mumbles into his shoulder, and neither of them move right away. Emma swears she imagines it, but it feels like his fingers catch on the ends of her hair, stroking the strands with a barely audible sigh.

 

“Emma.” Her name is a whisper and an invitation, his eyes dropping to her lips when she finally looks up. She starts to lean into him, but her balance falters, and in a surprising show of reflexes for how empty the flask is, he manages to stop them both from falling into the harbor.

 

Again.

 

He holds on longer than he should, but Emma doesn’t push him away, and when he finally does let go, she wishes he wouldn’t. Not that she can find the words to say that, and even though his eyes settle on her mouth, hunger deepening his gaze, he doesn’t kiss her.

 

“Shall I drive you home?” he offers, gesturing blindly in the direction of the bar after helping her to her feet.

 

“You’re drunk,” she reminds him, swallowing a giggle because hell, she’s drunk too. There’s a subtle sway to her walk that’s she sober enough to notice but too inebriated to do anything about.

 

“I could ask Liam.” Killian sways with her, two drunken sailors stumbling down along the docks.

 

“You want to…he’s my boss.” It takes her a second, her fuzzy brain happy to stay in the bubble of tequila and rum and warmth that has been the past several hours with him on the edge of the water, but there’s no stopping the train once it’s gotten going. She’s supposed to be quitting, and instead she had a drunk snuggle with Killian on a dark dock, and he’s suggesting they ask his brother to drive her drunk ass home. “Oh…fuck.”

 

“Are you all right, love?”

 

“ _Fuck_.” Emma groans, pressing her hands over her face and wishing the ocean would rise up to swallow her then and there. “Liam is my boss. _You’re_ my boss. And I’m drunk. And…”

 

“Swan, as you just pointed out, I’m a bit pissed myself.” His smile is sad, but no less beautiful as the moon catches his eyes, molten silver in the night. “We’ll just not tell Liam.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Either,” he says with a laugh, answering her unintentional question with a shake of his head. “Come along, love. I’ll walk you home.”

 

“But–”

 

“This isn’t me trying to seduce you. Trust me, you would know if I was.” He raises a brow, and she can see it on his face, the unspoken invitation that says he isn’t necessarily _trying_ but he wouldn’t be against the idea either. “It’s getting chilly and walking will keep me warm while I avoid going home a bit longer, aye? Let me be a gentleman and see you back.”

 

She opens her mouth to argue, but the truth is she doesn’t entirely want to give up her time with him, no matter how many alarms are ringing in the recesses of her thoughts. She’s going to pay for this. Her next shift with him is going to be unbearably awkward, but that won’t change now, whether he walks her home or not.

 

And she can’t quit now.

 

So she shrugs and then nods, and when his arm drapes across her shoulders like he’s done it a thousand times before, she doesn’t stop him, doesn’t push him away.

 

They don’t talk as they meander through the quiet, dark town. Emma pretends not to notice Killian choosing the long way, and when they’re finally standing outside her parents’ loft, she doesn’t ask how he knows where she lives, either – Emma is very good at not asking questions when she doesn’t want to hear the answers.

 

“Goodnight, Emma.” He raises his hand tentatively, and when she doesn’t move, he brushes a strand of hair off her face, the hunger creeping back into his eyes a direct contrast to his gentle touch and soft voice. “Thank you for your company this evening.”

 

“You were in my spot,” she replies, as if that explains their odd truce or the pull between them – as if it explains why his fingers have found their way into her hair, his palm hovering so close to her cheek she can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

 

“I wasn’t aware you owned the dock,” he says wryly, arching an eyebrow at her. “Own the whole bloody harbor, do you?”

 

Emma scowls at him, but there’s no true anger behind it. “No. Just that spot,” she insists, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. “I spent enough years sitting there. It’s mine, and I’ve had the splinters in my ass to prove it.”

 

“I see.” And it seems in that moment, he does – he sees everything about Emma that she’s been trying to keep hidden since coming back home; he sees the scared lost girl she’s desperately trying to outrun, and yet he’s still here, standing on the sidewalk outside her parents’ apartment with his fingers in her hair and his lips so close to hers. He doesn’t even walk through the wide open door she’s left for him to make a comment about her ass.

 

But when her eyes slip shut, his lips brush against her cheek, his palm cradling her jaw. It’s fast, so fast she wonders if she imagined it when her eyes open and he’s taken a step back, a tiny smile playing on the edge of his lips.

 

“Goodnight, Killian.” She breathes out his name, lingering with her hand on the door, and the words hang between them as they both hesitate. And she knows, _knows_ if this were her apartment, if it weren’t for her parents asleep upstairs, she would invite him in.

 

But it’s not, and she’s not brave enough tonight to ask if he lives with his brother, so she twists the knob and slips inside, her heart pounding and his scent clinging to her skin.

 


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn’t mean for it to happen, but somehow after that night of drunken companionship on the docks, she can’t seem to find a way to apply the word _stupid_ to Killian Jones.

 

It’s awkward when she first arrives at the bar. Killian is obviously nursing a hangover, dark shadows under his eyes and his scruff unkempt. The sight gives her pause, a flicker of something like curiosity, only somehow _more_ tugging at her. He wasn’t sober when he left her at her door, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk, either. Had he gone home and started drinking again? And if he did, why?

 

Firmly telling herself it isn’t her concern – and that the last thing she wants to do is open the door she's firmly slammed shut on all the things she thought she wanted to do with him last night under the influence of way too much tequila and rum –Emma settles into the rhythm of Monday afternoon. The bar isn’t that busy, only the handful of regulars present in their accustomed spots, and it doesn’t take long before she’s run out of things to do to occupy herself.

 

She tries leaning against the wall opposite the bar, her eyes drifting toward the TV without really absorbing anything occurring on the screen. It’s mostly just a way to avoid the heavy weight of Killian’s bloodshot eyes that follow her around the bar – he isn’t even attempting to be subtle about it; the few times she’s looked up and met his gaze, he hasn’t looked away, his stare full of questions.

 

It’s as if she’s a puzzle he’s determined to solve, his brows slightly furrowed, his eyes slightly narrowed. What the big mystery is, she has no idea. Emma likes to think of herself as fairly straightforward. Maybe she’s not into sharing her deepest secrets, but what’s so complicated about that?

 

Besides, most of what she enjoyed about her time sitting by the water with Killian was that he didn’t try to pull her secrets out of her. He was just _there_. Another person sharing the dark of the night, a warm arm around her shoulders. No expectations to fall short of. No emotional trauma to resurrect in conversation.

 

But when it starts to seem like Killian is working himself up to ask her a question she definitely won’t want to answer, she decides to beat him to it. “Do you live with your brothers?” she asks when she returns to the bar for a refill for Leroy.

 

A shadow darkens his eyes, but then he smirks at her, eyebrow lifted. “Interested in my quarters, are you?” he asks, his tongue running over his bottom lip as he lets his eyes linger on her snug t-shirt. And if it wasn’t for the way he’s been looking at her all afternoon, the intensity of his stare and the way he was with her last night, she would believe the lie – she would believe the careful mask of the arrogant, flirts-with-anything Killian Jones.

 

But now that she knows it’s a front, the real question remains – just what is he hiding?

 

Whatever it is, he’s never going to tell her in the middle of the bar, so she rolls her eyes, grabs Leroy’s beer and starts to walk away. “You’re the one who seems awfully _interested_ today,” she tosses back over her shoulder with a pointed look.

 

The instant flush of his cheeks makes it worth the burning in hers.

 

-x-

 

The days grow shorter and the nights cooler, Emma’s breath steaming in the air as she steps out onto the deserted deck. Killian’s brothers spent the late afternoon emptying the space of its furniture, their shadows playing against the windows like marching soldiers as they went to and fro. No sense in leaving umbrellas and chairs and tables out to crust over with the brine of the ocean kicked up by the autumn winds, the mercury dipping far too low for even the heartiest of Mainers to consider sitting outside.

 

As if in answer to her thoughts, the wind lifts, leaves rustling together as Emma shivers and rubs her hands briskly over her arms in an attempt to warm up. She could just go back inside, but it’s hot in the bar tonight, something about a broken thermostat if Liam’s grumbling under his breath is to be believed. Killian is staring at her again, and her mother is starting to ask questions about Neal, and she really needs her own place, but the one apartment she went to look at was completely out of her budget and…

 

“Swan?”

 

The sound of his voice should be a surprise, but oddly enough, Emma isn’t startled at all to find Killian behind her, her faint _hmm?_ probably lost on the wind.

 

“Everything all right, love?” She can hear the hesitation in the question, the way he’s toeing that hazy line between them. They flirt and they banter, but they never _really_ talk, and there hasn’t been another moment like that night between them where he almost kissed her and she almost wanted him to. But now he’s found her on an empty deck overlooking a black ocean under a dark sky, and she wants to scream at him to go away, and she wants to bury her head in his chest and let him hold her together for a little while under all that vast, empty sky.

 

But for all the things she wants, she shrugs in response to Killian’s question.

 

“You’ll catch your death out here in nothing but that shirt.”

 

“I’ll just be a minute.”

 

He sighs, and then he’s next to her, his warmth tempting as he leans on the deck rail and follows her gaze into the moonless night. The winds rise once more, shimmers of chop visible across the harbor, and Killian sighs again before draping a tentative arm across her shoulders. When she doesn’t resist, he nudges her closer, and then she’s standing on the deck surrounded by inky night and Killian, her cheek pressed to his shirt, and she honestly can’t remember the last time someone hugged her like this – a simple, affectionate embrace that isn't an apology or a demand, but a gift given freely with nothing asked in return.

 

It’s that realization that pushes her back, her cheeks stinging from the wind and her own confusion as she mumbles something incoherent and hurries back into the bar. She has no business accepting gifts from him of any kind, freely given or not. Killian is her employer, and maybe something like a friend, but out there on the deck, it became very clear he's offering her more than friendship. And a part of her wants more, wants to reach out and snatch the promise of how good things might be between them, but he's got enough to worry about without her screwing things up for them both.

 

It’s a long time before Killian comes back inside.

 

And now she wants to ask if he’s all right, but Liam is standing behind the bar, a towel over his shoulder and a storm brewing in the tight lines of his jaw as his eyes narrow and flicker between the two of them, so she picks up a rag and goes back to wiping down tables.

 

Whatever the brothers say to each other is lost in the hum of the bar, and Emma tells herself it’s better that way.

 

She pretends not to see the slight slump in Killian’s shoulders that he can't quite hide – pretends it doesn't tighten her chest and make her wish she could be good enough for him.

 

-x-

 

The first time it happens, she’s certain neither of them intends it.

 

Emma has the evening off, but she can’t stay in the loft with her mother. Mary Margaret means well, and Emma keeps reminding herself of that, but the sympathetic glances and the not-so-subtle questions are driving her insane.

 

There’s a reason she never told her mother what happened with Neal; hell, there’s a hundred reasons. But chief among them is her own very real shame that she let it get so bad – that she was so obviously and easily conned by the man.

 

That some terrible, pathetic part of her heart misses him and wishes she could go back to being blindly in love, her head in the sand as the warning signs crashed in waves around her.

 

Emma is just strong enough to keep herself from picking up the phone and calling him – just strong enough to know that one black eye is never where it ends. And most days she’s strong enough to brush off her mother’s inquiries, to ignore the way her father’s gaze lingers and his lips curve into a small frown.

 

But tonight she is not strong enough to face them with only a thousand square feet between them. So she’s come to the docks, two steaming takeout cups of Granny’s finest hot chocolate cradled against her chest and a blanket under her arm as night sweeps across the sky. She’s just settled in, her back to one of the pilings and her knees drawn close to her chest with the wool blanket tucked around her, when she hears footsteps.

 

“Following me?” she asks with forced lightness when Killian appears, a shadow against the darkening sky in his snug black jeans and tailored leather jacket.

 

“Expecting someone?” he replies, nodding to the second cup sitting next to her on the worn boards.

 

Emma glances down at the hot chocolates, tempted to say that _yes_ , she is expecting someone. Ruby. Elsa. Her father. “No,” she says instead, offering him a small smile. “I like hot chocolate. Granny only sells one size.”

 

“Ah, well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Don’t fall in,” he adds, but the joke falls flat.

 

“You can stay,” Emma offers before she can stop herself, and then she’s picking up her second hot chocolate and holding it out to him. “I really don’t need to drink both of these.”

 

“I don’t wish to impose, Swan. Truly. I was out for a bit of a walk, and…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, his clothes rustling with his shrug, but he doesn’t turn away.

 

But he saw her sitting on the dock, and for whatever reason, he ended up standing beside her, awkwardly shifting his weight in such a stark contrast to his persona behind the bar that Emma wonders if she’s stumbled into an alternate reality – if this dock somehow exists in another world where Killian isn’t the arrogant bartender but instead something else entirely.

 

“Sit down before _you_ fall in.” He hesitates, but when she grows impatient and scowls at him, he takes a seat. She waits for him to settle beside her before handing him the hot chocolates and wordlessly rearranging the blanket to cover both their legs. It’s far easier than it should be, the way he holds the drinks and then wordlessly hands hers back before settling his arm around her shoulders.

 

Emma expects him to ask her if she’s all right, but just like that first night, he doesn’t. He simply leans back against the piling post, his eyes closed and his drink steaming in his free hand. She can’t help herself, greedily devouring the lines of his jaw and the curve of his neck, elongated by his position. As if he can feel her stare, his fingers tighten ever-so-slightly on her shoulder, drawing her closer, and somehow she ends up curled into his side, leather and wool thick in her nose.

 

And maybe it’s because he doesn’t expect it of her, or doesn’t try to force it out of her, but Emma finds that she _wants_ to talk to him. Not because the silence is awkward or because she feels obliged to, but because the words press against her lips and she finds herself very softly admitting, “I don’t think Liam likes me very much.”

 

Killian’s snort surprises her, his laughter a low rumble in his chest she feels more than hears. “Liam doesn’t like anyone very much. Comes with being the eldest, I suspect.” He shifts his weight, his laugh quieting as he adds, “He worries about anything and everything, love. It’s his natural state, and nothing to do with you.”

 

The words are soft, but even if he’s not slamming it, Killian is shutting the door on the topic of his brother, and Emma would have known that from his fidgeting alone – it’s his most obvious tell, and pressed against him as she is, she can feel every movement he makes.

 

Including the almost absent way his thumb strokes her shoulder.

 

“You do a fine job,” Killian says just as Emma begins to drift back into her own thoughts, cozy with her hot chocolate, Killian, and the blanket. “You’re the only one who can manage Leroy well into his cups, and I’ve never seen Liam – the younger one, aye? – so attentive to his chores.”

 

At a loss for what else to say, Emma hums her vague agreement, returning her attention to her drink and the soft lapping of the water on the wood beneath them. An hour passes in comfortable silence, but with each movement she makes to drink her cocoa, with each brush of Killian’s thumb, she becomes more and more aware of his body pressed to hers – the heat of his skin, the subtle scent of his cologne, and the faint hint of wood smoke clinging to his clothes.

 

But when the wind rises as the hour grows late, Emma can’t help the shiver that tears through her. Maybe it’s more to do with the direction she’s allowed her thoughts to wander in – the ghost of Killian’s tongue on the inside of her thigh, the burn of his stubble on her cheeks – but the wind is a convenient excuse.

 

Killian folds the blanket for her as they get to their feet, frowning as he hands it back. “Allow me to drive you back, Swan. It’s getting rather cold.”

 

Emma wants to say no, but it _is_ cold, and she’s fairly certain he would just walk her back again if she refuses. So she nods and clutches the blanket to her chest as they head back toward the bar.

 

Maybe it’s the sudden brightness of the lights outside the bar after the soothing dark and their own small bubble of night, or maybe it’s the certainty gnawing at her stomach that despite Killian’s protest, Liam really _doesn’t_ like her, or maybe it’s that she spent the last twenty minutes fantasizing about Killian naked and between her thighs, but the silence turns awkward. Emma grasps for something to say, anything really, but with each footfall on the boards, her stomach only twists itself tighter.

 

It’s a relief to get to the loft, a relief to toss a _thank you_ over her shoulder before barreling out of Killian’s truck and into the apartment. She ignores the lump of lead forming in her stomach, ignores the flash of hurt on his face at her abrupt departure, and quickly closes the door after a final wave filled with false cheer.

 

What the _hell_ is she doing with Killian Jones?

 

-x-

 

“What’s up with you and Killian?” Ruby asks the moment Emma slides into their usual back booth at Granny’s.

 

“Nice to see you too, Ruby.” Emma rolls her eyes, shrugging out of her jacket and reaching to unwind her scarf. She meets Elsa’s eyes, waiting to see if her other friend has a comment to go along with Ruby’s, but the blonde only smiles softly.

 

“I’m glad you didn’t quit,” she says before Ruby can jump in again. “They really are nice guys.”

 

“Nice guys?” It’s Ruby’s turn to roll her eyes. “Elsa, Liam has been flirting with you for months. You should just admit already you like the guy. And _you_.” Ruby points one painted nail at Emma, narrowing her eyes. “There is definitely something going on with you and the younger brother Jones.”

 

“There is _nothing_ going on with Killian. We just work together. What’s wrong with getting along with the people you work with?” Emma keeps her eyes on her menu, knowing that despite the truth of it – there really isn’t anything going on – if she meets Ruby’s stare, she’ll turn bright red and then she’ll never hear the end of it.

 

“I saw you walking down by the docks the other night. He had his arm around you. Didn’t look like _nothing_.”

 

“Are you seriously following me?” Emma demands, her eyes snapping up with her temper. A flush rises instantly in her cheeks, but it’s as much from irritation as anything else. “What the hell?”

 

“I drove by on my way to the fish market to pick up salmon for Granny.” Ruby lifts her brow at Emma’s outburst. “Doesn’t change what I saw. C’mon, Emma, after Neal, don’t you just want to have some fun?”

 

Emma stares incredulously at her friend, a woman she’s known for fifteen years and who still manages to know exactly how to sniff out her soft spots. She hasn’t told Ruby or Elsa the full story about Neal – she hasn’t told _anyone_ the full story. She doesn't even want to think about those days, never mind put the knowledge of them into someone else’s mind.

 

And maybe if she had her own place and she didn’t work for him and his brother, Emma would feel differently about her situation with Killian. But as it stands, she _does_ live with her parents, and she _does_ work for him and his brother, so despite all of the stupid choices she’s made, Killian isn’t going to be one of them.

 

“I work at his bar,” Emma finally gets out, struggling to keep the irritation out of her voice. She knows Ruby means well, but she came to lunch to spend time with her friends – not to worry about the shambles her life is currently in. “We get along. It’s cold outside. He was just being nice.” Emma doesn’t elaborate or mention that Killian putting his arm around her is a common occurrence or how much she likes it; she doesn’t admit that maybe while he was just being nice the first time, his touch has a weight to it she pretends not to notice these days. He somehow knows she can’t handle more than what they have, and he doesn’t push, but she would have to be both blind and stupid not to feel the attraction between them.

 

Emma is neither blind nor stupid.

 

“I think it’s nice that you get along so well.” Elsa smiles across the table, her pale fingers curling around a steaming mug of coffee. “You don’t have to rush into anything more if you don’t want to. If it's meant to be, it will happen eventually. When the time is right, for you both.”

 

“There isn’t anything more to rush to.” Emma forces herself to take a long, slow breath, her fingers curled into tight fists under the table that take substantial effort to release. “Can we _please_ talk about something else?”

 

The two women across the table glance at each other, and Emma wants to scream at the look that passes between them. It quickly becomes obvious her friends have been talking about her and Killian when Emma isn’t around, but Ruby launches into a story about Granny threatening an unruly customer with a frying pan, and Emma swallows hard against her churning thoughts.

 

-x-

 

The second time it happens – well, really, the third time – Emma isn’t sure she believes in coincidence anymore.

 

“Liam mentioned he overheard you having a, um, disagreement with your mum at the diner,” Killian says by way of explanation, and it’s then that Emma notices he’s holding two insulated travel mugs, squinting against the sunlight. “I thought I might find you here. Hot chocolate?”

 

He holds out one of the mugs, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off the metal. The day is cool and windy, but the sunshine has kept it from being unbearably cold as Emma has watched the tide go out. Still, her fingers are frozen, and the steam of the drink when she pushes the lid open is almost as glorious as the rich, chocolatey scent wafting out of it.

 

“Thank you.” She’s stunned, really – stunned he took the time to find her, stunned he did this.

 

He responds with a smile – a rare, true expression of happiness softer than his usual smirk in the bar. There is nothing devious in his expression, no hint of teasing or plotting as he settles beside her and sips his own drink.

 

And when he doesn’t do it on his own, Emma picks up his arm and settles herself against him, swallowing a sigh of contentment as his familiar warmth surrounds her. He makes a noise low in his throat, a mixture of surprise and pleasure as his fingers curl around her shoulder, and she thinks maybe she shouldn’t have done that, but it’s too late to take it back.

 

“She means well,” Emma begins, because maybe she really does want to talk to someone, and maybe Killian will understand. She’s told him about her mother before, so it’s not like he doesn’t already know their relationship is...complicated. “My mom. But I just…” She shrugs, unable to quite articulate what she wants to say or how she feels. She stormed out of the diner, embarrassed by her mother’s pointed questions loud enough to be overheard by anyone, and while her temper flares all over again just thinking about it, she doesn't have the words to describe the combination of embarrassment, guilt, and disappointment that seem to be her constant companions lately.

 

“Want to make your own decisions? Be your own person, even if that means making a hash of it? Aye.” She hears it again in his words, that hint at something else, a feeling she likely holds hidden in the depths of her own heart.

 

Emma doesn’t ask, but somehow, someway, they spend that next hour talking. She tells him about her mother, how Mary Margaret’s constant efforts to help are suffocating her slowly, how she’s beginning to hate going home, how she actually looks forward to the days she has to work.

 

Killian mostly listens, but in the times he does speak, Emma picks up his own weariness with the elder Liam’s tendency to offer unsolicited advice. The brothers Jones haven’t had the easiest time of it – two single men trying to raise a teenage boy on their own is only their latest challenge, all while keeping a business afloat. It turns out they do all live together, and Killian too thinks about moving out, but his position is murkier than Emma’s. Liam might be the official guardian, but Killian has a responsibility to the youngest Jones, too.

 

Neither of them has answers for the other, but Emma can’t deny it feels good to simply admit the words out loud – her mother is driving her insane. And when Killian wraps his arms around her and holds her just a beat longer than he usually does, Emma pretends she doesn’t feel a tug low in her belly and walks back to the loft in the cold, the taste of chocolate on her tongue.

 

She definitely doesn’t think about how Killian would have tasted of chocolate, too.

 

-x-

 

Before Emma knows it, October is running down the clock. Halloween is just around the corner when she wakes up, blinks blearily at her phone, and realizes the date.

 

Today Emma Swan turns twenty-six and is no closer to getting her life together.

 

She can hear her parents moving around downstairs, the soft hum of their voices and the clatter of silverware and dishes. She hasn’t been home for a birthday in years, but if she were a betting woman, she would put good money on her mother making pancakes with rainbow sprinkles like she did when Emma first came to live with the Nolans.

 

Emma doesn’t want rainbow sprinkles.

 

She also doesn’t want to admit what she really wants – hot chocolate and quiet and _Killian_.

 

But since Killian isn’t an option, Emma forces herself out of bed and downstairs, a smile plastered on her face. She says the things she’s supposed to, and she accepts a hug from her parents, and she eats the damn pancakes. They sit like lead in her stomach, and it’s a relief when Mary Margaret and David kiss her on the cheek and rush out the door.

 

Standing in the middle of the suddenly quiet loft, Emma swallows the last of her coffee and lets her breath out slowly, watching the dust dance in a beam of sunlight. The day stretches wide before her, empty of plans until she’s due at the bar this evening. Ruby tried to convince her to take the night off and go out with her friends, but taking a night off would require an explanation, and she can’t say why, but Emma doesn’t want Killian to know it’s her birthday.

 

And she’s not in the mood to celebrate.

 

She considers driving out to the cabin nestled deep in the woods, a weekend getaway her parents bought when she was fifteen. She loves the one bedroom sanctuary, its isolation highly tempting on today of all days. There’s no cell phone service out there, but there’s a deep claw-foot tub that’s perfect for soaking away worries and aches alike, and a woodstove for when the power inevitably goes out. It’s the perfect place to curl up and listen to the wind howl while watching the flames dance – a place to forget her failures for a beat and just _be_.

 

But it’s a two hour drive in each direction and it’s just not worth it.

 

Vowing to find time to escape Storybrooke sometime soon, Emma takes a long shower, turning the water as hot as she can stand it until it runs out. Ruby takes her to lunch and makes a last-ditch effort to convince Emma to call out of work, but refrains from saying a word about Killian.

 

Emma wonders if that’s her birthday present.

 

She gets to the bar early, too restless to be alone in the loft. She has the oddest sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop, a heaviness in the air that portends some sort of disaster, but she tells herself she’s being dramatic and tries to ignore it. It’s probably just the storm due to arrive late tonight, the remnants of a hurricane that broke apart further south finally making its way up the coast to give the Maine coastline a good thrashing.

 

The younger Liam glances up when Emma walks in, his school books spread over one of the booths and his brow furrowed in an expression so like Killian’s that Emma can’t help but smile as she straightens her windblown hair. “What’re you working on today?” she asks, sliding into the open seat across from the teenager and glancing over the history books.

 

“Revolutionary War,” he grumbles in reply, gesturing aimlessly at the pile of papers. “I have a paper due next week. On _Halloween_.”

 

“You have to write a paper about Halloween?”

 

That gets him to laugh, but he shakes his head and sighs. “No, it’s supposed to be on these questions.” He pushes a wrinkled piece of paper across the table, notes scrawled in the margins that mostly look like a lot of question marks. “I can’t figure out which one to write about. Killian says I should write about the blockade runners, but he just likes pirates.”

 

“Let me see.” Emma scans over the questions, struggling to remember anything from her high school history classes. She wasn’t the best student, but Mary Margaret had been patient and done her best to help Emma learn the material. “Killian likes pirates?” she asks, going for nonchalance with her eyes still firmly glued to the paper in her hands.

 

She can _hear_ Liam’s grin. “Yeah, he dresses up as one every year for Halloween. You’re going to love it.” And there it is, the same little smug smirk his brother wears so well – and just like that, a teenage boy makes Emma blush as easily as Ruby’s prodding comments.

 

“That will be…interesting.” Emma sets the paper down, her eyes automatically searching for the man in question. She finds him behind the bar, a curious expression on his face as he watches her interact with his kid brother. “Honestly? Blockade runners sound more interesting than any of the rest of that stuff.”

 

“I guess.” He grumbles a bit more under his breath, and Emma uses that as her cue to slip out of the booth and make her way over to Killian.

 

“Evening, Swan. You’re early.” He sets down the glass he was drying, reaching into the sink for another. “Miss me?” he asks, making a show of staring at her from beneath his eyelashes, a mischievous grin lighting up his features.

 

She rolls her eyes, the comfort of his flirting familiar and welcome amid the soft _chink_ of the glasses rattling together in the soapy water. “You wish. Want help?” she offers, already making her way around the bar.

 

“If you’re so inclined.” He makes room for her, and if she closed her eyes, the entire bar would drop away and there would just be the two of them, close enough to smell his soap and crave his touch.

 

It’s a good thing her hands are occupied drying glasses.

 

It isn’t until later, much later, when the last customers have left and Emma is wiping down the tables for the evening that Killian comes up to her, his expression undecipherable. They’re the only two left in the bar, and half the lights are already off, so Emma blames his odd look on the shadows as she turns to him expectantly, eyebrows raised in silent question.

 

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

 

It’s practically an accusation, and Emma is too surprised to school her features or temper her response. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.” It comes out harsher than she intends, but she doesn’t apologize.

 

Killian mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like a string of curses, dragging his palm across his face. “I merely thought that we…that by now you would…”

 

“That I would _what_?” she snaps, embarrassed and far angrier than she should be, mostly at herself. While she’s been letting herself enjoy his company, he’s been forming expectations, investing himself in her, and now he’s come to collect.

 

Emma has spent a lifetime failing everyone’s expectations – especially her own. She doesn’t want Killian’s. She’s made a conscious effort to ensure he doesn’t have any, but here they are.

 

“That you would tell me it was your bloody birthday,” he says wearily, and he gestures to the bar where there’s a muffin with an unlit candle stuck in it. “It was the best I could do on short notice, but I thought you ought to have something to wish on.” The words are honest and a little raw, his eyes full of shadows when he looks at her again, and Emma wishes the water would rise straight up out of the harbor to wash her out to sea.

 

Maybe she does it because she wants him to shut up, to stop looking at her like she’s breaking his heart, or maybe she does it because her emotions are so jumbled and so scattered that she can’t keep up, or maybe she does it because she’s wanted to for weeks, but Emma drops the cloth she’s been using and launches herself into Killian’s arms.

 

He makes a soft, surprised noise as her lips touch his, but then his hands are in her hair and he’s kissing her, backing her up against the wall beside the bar until his hips pin her into place, and he deepens the kiss. Emma burns against him, every desire she’s been forcing down bubbling to the surface as she digs her nails into his biceps, tugging him as close as she can. The smell of his skin fills her senses, and then it’s just the taste of him and the softness of his skin under her greedy hands, his stuttering breaths and quiet groans.

 

And if her elbow hadn’t sent a saltshaker crashing to the ground, the noise sharp as a gunshot in the empty bar, Emma might have gone on kissing Killian forever.

 

She pushes on his shoulders, her breath ragged, and he backs up, watching as she bends to grab the offending shaker and sets it back on the counter. He wears his surprise plainly, right next to his obvious desire as he reaches for her.

 

“I need to go,” she says, rubbing her mouth and avoiding his eyes, twisting to avoid his touch. “I, um, the muffin…another time, okay?”

 

She’s gone before he can reply. It’s a long, cold walk home through the rain, and she thinks she hears him shouting her name, but the wind makes it easy to pretend it’s just her imagination.

 

The taste of him on her tongue is harder to ignore.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma pretends the kiss never happened.

 

It’s easier said than done, her dreams haunted by the memory of his lips and the tempered strength of his hands on her hips, the low noises she drew from him with a shift of her weight and sweep of her tongue. And maybe he knows her well enough not to bring it up, to go along with her obvious intentions to not discuss it – and not let it happen again.

 

Still, there’s something different in the weight of his eyes on her, something that makes her breath catch and her belly burn – and makes her wonder if he’s just biding his time, waiting for her self-control to inevitably fail.

 

But it also draws Liam’s attention, and big brother does not appear happy. Not one bit.

 

So Emma steers clear of the two of them, keeping her head down and her hands occupied. There are a few terse conversations between the two elder Jones brothers that Emma pretends not to see, pretends not to notice when Killian’s lips flatten with anger and his eyes still seek her out.

 

Emma does a lot of pretending.

 

It’s the youngest of the brothers who catches her on her way out of the bar a few days before Halloween. He looks like he’s up to something, and Emma can’t help her curiosity as she turns to give him her attention.

 

“Tomorrow night we’re going to carve all the pumpkins for the bar. It’s a tradition,” he explains, gesturing around the place. Killian – at least Emma suspects it was Killian – has already strung up some orange twinkle lights and fake spider webs, and there are a few pumpkins scattered about, but no jack-o’-lanterns. The place has a festive vibe going for it, but Emma has been too caught up in her own thoughts to notice until Liam points it out.

 

“I’m not really good at that,” Emma hedges, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets and fighting the urge to fidget. It’s not a lie, but the truth is that she doesn’t want to be caught in close quarters with the older brothers.

 

“Please? It’s just me and Killian. Liam is going to be at the bar.” His expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but as Emma stares at him, the very tips of his ears begin to turn red.

 

“You know there’s nothing…Killian and I…we’re not…” She waves her hands, helpless when confronted with the actual words. They’re _not,_ but why is it so hard to just say so? “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to come,” she finally says, firmly shoving her hands back in her pockets.

 

“Please?” He’s just shy of whining, his eyes wide as he pleads his case. “Killian loves Halloween, but lately he’s…he’s not himself. I think he’d like it if you helped.”

 

Emma swallows the groan bubbling up, squeezing her hands into fists within her pockets. “Guilt, kid? Really?”

 

Liam shrugs, grinning despite having been caught. “Is it working?”

 

Emma hesitates, her heart thumping wildly. Is it really such a bad idea? It’s not as though Killian himself is inviting her, and they won’t be alone. She _does_ work in the bar, and it’s normal to be at least friendly with her coworkers, right? Besides, a teenage boy actually wants to spend time with his brother and wants her to be there, so how can she spoil that?

 

“What time and where?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t regret agreeing.

 

Oddly enough, she doesn’t.

 

She arrives at the address Liam gave her, a house on the water a few blocks from the bar. It’s modest but well kept, everything in neat order and repair. Killian is the one to open the door, delightfully disheveled in a pair of worn jeans with bare feet. By the flicker of surprise on his face, his brother didn’t tell him about his scheme. “Liam invited me,” she blurts out before he can say anything, grateful for the darkness of the night. “To, um, carve pumpkins?”

 

“Aye.” Killian shakes his head as if pulling himself from a daze, his expression warming into a welcoming smile. “We were just getting started. I’ve a pot of cider mulling on the stove.”

 

The whole house smells of it, warm and deliciously spicy with the promise of cool fall nights bleeding into chilly winter mornings. Despite her initial misgivings, Emma starts to relax as Killian pours her a mug and pushes it into her hands. He fixes himself a drink before leaning back against the kitchen counter, the thin charcoal Henley clinging to his chest and arms, and his eyes bluer than ever in the dim light.

 

“So, love, what do you think?”

 

“Huh?” Emma blinks at him, caught off guard by the question and wondering if she was too busy staring at him to listen. “Think about what?”

 

His lips curve into a knowing grin, but he lifts his cup and gestures slightly with it. “The cider. It's ours. Mine and Liam’s, that is. Last year’s batch. I know you said you don’t much care for the stuff, but…”

 

“Oh.” She laughs nervously, licking her lips and staring into the depths of the rich liquid. They never did have that celebratory drink when she first started, her pride too bruised by her argument with Killian to stick around – and he hasn't brought it up. But she can see him thinking about, the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly as he watches her, his body drifting toward hers. “It’s good,” she says, summoning up as much enthusiasm as she can. “You’ll have to tell me how it's done.”

 

He takes a deep breath, as though working himself up to something, and starts to say, “Emma, I…”

 

But whatever it is he was about to tell her in a frighteningly earnest voice is lost, the clatter of footsteps on the stairs revealing the younger Liam. “You guys ready?” he asks, and then he raises his damn eyebrow just like his brother when he’s teasing Emma, and it’s a relief to get to work and have something else to focus on.

 

It’s a very pleasant two hours spent laughing at herself and the brothers. Killian carves meticulously, which doesn’t surprise her in the least. As a result, his pumpkins look like they fell out of a magazine while Emma and Liam…well, they tried.

 

Killian only smiles.

 

“Thank you for joining us, love,” he says as they’re cleaning up, Liam playing a video game on the couch. The kitchen is small, not really enough room for both of them, but Emma isn’t about to sit around watching him clean up a mess she definitely contributed to – there is a solid possibility she spent more time flinging pumpkin guts anywhere but on the newspaper Killian so carefully laid out. “This was nice.”

 

There’s so much hope in the three words that Emma has to focus hard on her breathing to keep it even, methodically wiping the counter down to give herself time to think of an adequate response. In the end, she settles on a lame, “Yeah, it was.”

 

The kiss hangs between them in that moment, standing as near to each other as they are, relatively alone. Killian is close enough that she can see the flecks of grey in his eyes, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks as he blinks, the fine lines across his lips as she drifts toward him.

 

But reality catches up, and she swallows hard against the desire threatening to choke off all rational thought. “I should get going,” she says, taking a step back and shoving her hands in her pockets before they get ideas of their own.

 

“Let me fetch my keys.”

 

“It’s okay. I can walk.”

 

“It’s bloody freezing. It’s just a ride home,” he adds, a hint of exasperation coloring the words. He’s frustrated, but there’s something about the set of his jaw and the conflict in his eyes that makes her think it’s not exactly her he’s upset with.

 

When he doesn’t try to kiss her again, Emma isn’t sure if she’s relieved – or disappointed.

 

-x-

 

Things fall back into their usual rhythm, and Emma is proud of herself for not making a mess of Halloween. Killian, true to Liam’s word, comes to work in a full pirate costume, right down to the black eyeliner that turns his eyes an even brighter blue.

 

If he notices her staring, he doesn’t seem to mind one bit, practically preening in his leather pants and open shirt. Emma lets herself flirt, but only in a superficial, never-going-to-go-anywhere sort of way – because as often as she feels Killian’s eyes on her, full of longing, she also catches Liam still watching her, his brows knit together and his lips pressed into a flat line.

 

She leaves that night before Killian can catch her alone, not certain if her willpower will be able to stand up to the temptation of him in his costume after a long night of innuendo and smoldering stares.

 

But as October gives way to November, some sense of normalcy settles over them. The bar is quiet more nights, and they close early often – by November, the handful of customers still clinging to their barstools after ten have been there for hours, well-soaked in their alcohol of choice.

 

So when Killian calls her over one evening and says she has a phone call, Emma does no more than wonder who the hell is calling her at the bar. It’s only after she says _hello_ that she notices Killian’s frown and the tense set of his shoulders.

 

“Hey, babe. Long time.”

 

And just like that, everything Emma has been working so hard to leave behind the last few months comes screeching back – terse arguments in dark bars, endless nights spent alone wondering if she would wake up to a call from the cops or the hospital, the scent of another woman’s perfume on his clothes, the glaze of eyes distorted by one drug or another…and the blinding, blistering pain of a fist hitting her face and shattering the remnants of her world in an instant.

 

“ _Neal_?” Emma manages to gasp into the phone, a question she never wants to ask again, but she already knows the answer – she would know his voice anywhere. “What the hell…how did you get this number?” Her voice is rough to her own ears, the sound of a woman held together by tape and glue left out to melt under the sun. She has the presence of mind to turn her back on the room for a modicum of privacy, but her legs won’t work to walk into the back storeroom.

 

“I called your parents and your mom gave it to me,” Neal replies, and she can hear the genuine confusion in his voice. He really doesn’t understand why it’s a problem for him to be calling her, here, now, after all this time – he really doesn’t understand how this is so many levels of fucked up.

 

“My mother...You know what, it doesn't matter. Don’t call again.” She somehow manages to turn the phone off, and it clatters down onto the bar itself, her hands shaking. She doesn’t know what’s worse – that Neal actually had the nerve to call, or that her _mother_ gave him the number. Emma might not have told her parents what happened in the end, but she’d come home with a black eye after calling her father in the dead of night from the middle of nowhere, Texas. Was it really necessary to go into the details?

 

The phone rings again, and Killian snatches it up. She hears his voice, registers it, but in a distant, dim place where reality doesn’t quite seem to reach her. It’s a sound she’s never heard before, a low, menacing growl filled with the promise of violence as she makes out _she doesn’t want to talk to you, mate_ through the fog.

 

And then Killian is there, his hand on her elbow as he steers her into the back and gently nudges her into sitting on a pile of beer cases. “Drink this,” he says brusquely, curling her numb fingers around a glass of amber. Emma obeys mindlessly, barely registering the burn of whiskey.

 

He doesn’t ask if she’s all right – she plainly isn’t. But he does sit with her, not touching her, as though he knows she’s lost in a haze of memories that would only be made worse by a man’s touch.

 

It could be a few minutes or an hour later when he rises, his voice rough. “Would you like me to call anyone for you, love? Ruby or Elsa? Your father, perhaps?” He’s smart enough to not offer to get her mother.

 

“No.” Emma shakes her head, and the motion brings a measure of clarity to her thoughts. She gets to her feet, the whiskey doing its part to thaw the icy numbness in her bones. “I’m fine. We should get back out there.”

 

“Emma—“

 

“Please, Killian.” She raises her eyes to his, surprised to see a violent rage brewing behind his obvious concern. “I can’t…I need to just go back to work.”

 

If he wants to argue, he swallows it, his nod a promise that the conversation is not over. But he moves out of the doorway and trails her back into the bar, and when she looks back, it’s a relief to have Killian standing there, his hand on the back of his neck but his gaze steady on her.

 

That gaze doesn’t falter as the night goes on, and despite her best effort to focus on work, Emma mostly drifts through the night in a haze. It’s a surprise when Killian announces last call, her eyes straying to the clock to discover it’s nearly closing.

 

And when the last customer is gone, the door shut firmly behind him, Killian wordlessly helps her clear the remaining tables, piling the dirty glasses beside the sink. “Who is he?” he finally asks, his voice measured but his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the bar.

 

“A mistake,” Emma whispers, sinking down onto one of the bar stools and offering him a bitter smile. “One I made for years.”

 

He hesitates, but then he reaches for the nearest bottle of liquor and two glasses, taking a seat heavily beside her and pouring. “My father was a bloody bastard,” he starts, speaking into the depths of the rum. “He beat our mother.” Killian’s eyes find hers, and the knowing she sees in them instantly explains the violence she felt in him in the storeroom – not directed at her, never directed at her, but the urge to lash out and hurt the thing that hurt her in the first place.

 

It’s not quite sympathy – but it’s something like it, and it tears open the wounds all over again. The physical pain had almost been the lesser blow – the humiliation and sheer powerlessness had been far worse. She thought she’d escaped Neal by leaving Texas and getting a new phone, forgetting he’d somehow weaseled the loft’s phone number out of her mom at one point.

 

“I can’t believe my mom gave him the number.”

 

“Does she know?” It’s there again, the murderous growl hidden beneath a façade of careful control.

 

“I came home with a black eye.” Emma stares into the bottom of her glass for a long moment before downing it in one burning gulp. Wincing against the burn of the liquor, she reaches over Killian’s arm for the bottle of rum and pours herself another measure. “Can I…will Liam be a dick about it if I sleep on your couch tonight?”

 

“Never mind him. Whatever you need, love. If it’s in my power to give it to you, it’s yours.” His hand finds hers, his grip strong and warm as he knits their fingers together. “And if Neal shows up here—“

 

“Don’t,” Emma cuts in, squeezing his hand to soften the harsh order. “I can fight my own battles, Killian. I don’t need a white knight. Just a friend. Can you just…can we do that?” It’s far too cold to sit down by the dock, even with blankets, but Emma would give anything for the peace of those nights with him under the stars, the quiet broken only by the lapping of the waves and the comfort of his heartbeat under her ear.

 

“Aye.” He lifts their joined hands, pressing a kiss so gently against her knuckles that Emma’s throat tightens. “The bar will keep. Let’s get you a hot shower.”

 

Emma nods, downing the rest of the rum and settling into a comfortable numbness of liquor and emotional exhaustion. Her life doesn’t feel like her own as she lets Killian steer her out of the bar and into the night, the cold slipping inside her coat and settling into her bones. The air smells of snow, a faint ring around the moon, but the night is otherwise clear for now, the stars twinkling merrily above them in mockery.

 

The Jones house is quiet as they enter, a lone light on over the stove. Killian ignores it, ushering her up the stairs and into his bedroom, the space tidy and decorated in deep navy. Emma blinks against the sudden light when he flips on a lamp, gesturing to a door on the opposite side of the room. “Bathroom is through there.”

 

“Thanks.” Emma moves across the room in a daze, her body on autopilot once behind the closed bathroom door. She undresses methodically and steps under the spray, barely registering the scent of Killian’s shampoo and soap as she goes through the motions. She stands there for a long time after the water has run clear, but the heat and the alcohol make her sleepy, and she shuts off the water before she loses her balance in the small shower.

 

“Emma?” The door opens a crack, Killian’s voice low. “I thought you might like something clean.”

 

She nods, only belatedly realizing he can’t see her response, and clutches the towel closer before moving to the door and nudging it open a little wider. It’s only after she’s taken the clothes and pulled them over her head that she makes the connection that they’re his – of course they’re his – but nonetheless breathing him in is a comfort she wasn’t expecting.

 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when she emerges, but he gets to his feet instantly. “Take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

 

“No.” It comes out steadier than she would have thought possible, even if her voice is scratchy. “You’ve done plenty.”

 

He wants to argue – it’s obvious in his tense shoulders and the slight curl of his fingers, and it’s reckless, and maybe a little stupid, but Emma stops him the best way she knows how – she kisses him.

 

And for a second, it’s like that night in the bar again, where his touch threatens to consume her. All she knows is Killian, his taste, the curve of muscle and warm flesh beneath her fingers, the soft scratch of his stubble on her cheek. But he’s the one to pull back, his fingers rising to brush against his lips as he shakes his head and swears under his breath.

 

“You’re upset, love,” he says quietly, though he doesn’t move any further away from her.

 

She _is_ upset, but with the dizzying clarity that comes along with emotional upheaval, Emma knows what she wants – she wants to forget Neal, forget that there was ever a time he could upset her. She _wants_ Killian, to hell with his brother’s problem with them being together, to hell with him being her sort of boss. She _wants_ to be with someone who knows when silence is the best thing to offer, someone who for all his bluster has a tender heart and a fierce loyalty to the people he cares for.

 

And he cares for her.

 

It’s because of that she knows better than to reply the way she wants to – to tell him it doesn’t matter if she’s upset or not, because to him, it _does_ matter. So instead she takes a shaky breath and meets his gaze head on. “I wasn’t upset the first time I kissed you,” she says, the closest she can come to spelling it out.

 

Panic threatens to overwhelm her in the seconds it takes for him to move, but then his lips are on hers, and Emma rises onto her toes to meet him, her fingers weaving into his hair. His callused palms rest on her cheeks, cradling her jaw as though she’s something fragile and precious.

 

But Emma doesn’t want to be fragile anymore.

 

Her fingers fumble on the buttons of his shirt, but she gets them undone fast enough, and Killian breaks the kiss as she shoves the fabric over his shoulders. His lips are deep red in the soft light of the lamp, the flush in his cheeks brightening the blue of his eyes as his gaze locks with hers. They stand there together for a breath, then two, the question of what exactly is going to happen between them hanging in the air.

 

Killian’s eyes slip closed, and he drops his arms to allow the shirt to fall free, shuddering as Emma’s teeth nip just below his collarbone. She hums with satisfaction, every nerve ending coming alive as one of his hands slides beneath the loose t-shirt she’s wearing to palm her bare breast.

 

It happens quickly from there, their hands clumsy in their eagerness, but their clothes end up on the floor in a heap all the same. Other than a gasped conversation to ascertain she’s on the pill and they’re both clean, they don’t talk beyond muttered prayers and curses. And maybe it’s not their finest work – Emma knows it’s not hers, too exhausted and desperate to care – but there is something immensely satisfying about it.

 

For once in her life, Emma is doing exactly what _she_ wants to do, for herself and no one else. Being with Killian is going to cause problems for him with his brother, and probably for her too, if she wants to keep her job, but she doesn’t _care_. She wants him, the quiet steadiness of him right along with the drag of his lips on her throat as his hips flex to send him deeper, his grip on her thigh and her body welcoming him as a low moan leaves her lips.

 

She knows he’s wanted this, wanted it for a long time, and she manages to open her eyes to watch him in all his glory. After the evening she’s had, Emma doesn’t expect to feel the way she does under his stare – wanted, desirable, and maybe even beautiful as he greedily devours the sight of her.

 

His grin when he realizes she’s watching him in turn is pure sin, a wicked gleam entering his eyes. He drags his free hand down her body with torturous slowness, pausing to caress the curve of her breast, thumbing her nipple hard enough for her back to arch in pleasure, her hips jerking of their own accord to meet his hard thrust.

 

Killian’s fingers dance lower, over the dip of her hips, and she can’t keep her eyes open any longer as his thumb drags a slow circle just above where they’re joined. It’s maddening, the way he avoids touching her just where she wants it, where she _needs_ it, but it’s only another two or three thrusts of his hips before his rhythm falters and his thumb presses down right _there_.

 

Her cry is cut off by his mouth on hers, the kiss swallowing his groan along with hers. He keeps kissing her, sloppy, panting kisses as they ride out the high, her body going limp beneath his.

 

It’s mere minutes later that she’s curled into his side, his arm around her and fingers tangled in her still-damp hair. She’s relieved when he doesn’t try to talk, doesn’t ask her any questions about what’s just happened between them, what it means for them now. Emma doesn’t know. But what she _does_ know is that she feels safe wrapped up in Killian’s arms and sheets, and she’s asleep before she can question how easy it is to be with him once she stops fighting it.

 

-x-

 

Emma blinks her eyes open as Killian slides out of bed, the dim light revealing it to be just past dawn. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly when he sees she’s awake. The awe in his voice, as though he can’t believe she’s there, quells the instant fear that rises sharply in her chest at the sight of him seemingly sneaking off. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He leans over the bed, pressing a kiss to her forehead before bending to grab clothes off the floor.

 

Emma lays back against the pillows, admiring the view of Killian’s naked body as he moves about, all lean muscle and catlike grace. The fact that his backside practically glows against the lingering tan that covers the rest of him doesn’t hurt, drawing her eyes, and she resolves stay awake until he comes back to bed.

 

He slips out of the room on silent feet, and the fact that he’s only pulled on a clean pair of underwear settles the last lingering doubt that he’s about to leave her in his bedroom alone – surely Killian isn’t about to venture into the November dawn practically naked.

 

There’s a creak on the stair, the only evidence of his movements, and Emma sighs, rolling onto her side and pressing her nose into his pillow. Without the haze of alcohol, doubt starts to creep in, and she breathes Killian’s scent deeply in an attempt to quell it. She doesn’t regret her choice last night, even if it was helped along by a liberal dose of rum, but she can’t help wondering if she will – or if Killian does.

 

After all, they don’t know each other _that_ well. She knows the bar has been around for a few seasons, opening up shortly after the last time she took off with Neal, but she has no idea where he lived before coming to Maine. His accent is a decent indicator that it wasn’t stateside, and though the lilt was more pronounced when he’d murmured sleepily to her, it wasn’t so thick that he’s a fresh transplant.

 

Emma hasn’t asked, but she also hasn’t offered up much of herself either. He knows the basics of her story – orphaned, adopted by the Nolans when she was ten, took off when she was eighteen with some guy she met at a concert in Boston. She was back a year later, but when Neal turned up before long, she was gone again.

 

What will he think of her when she finally tells him the whole story? That she kept going back, again and again, to a man who treated her like an object, a possession? That even though she now has loving parents – has had, for some time – and good friends, she still spent years feeling lost and alone? That she’d gone with Neal time and again in a desperate attempt to find something to make her feel like a whole person again, to soothe the ache that she seemed to have been born with?

 

That in all the years she’d spent with Neal, he’d never done something as sweet as Killian’s gesture with the stupid muffin she hadn’t even eaten on her birthday.

 

Lost in her thoughts, it takes her a little while to realize Killian’s side of the bed has grown cold. Frowning, Emma sits up, her ears straining for some hint of him. The low rumble of voices greets her, and she relaxes again. He must have gotten distracted by one of his brothers. Simple enough. He’ll be back in a minute.

 

But another minute ticks by, and another, and though she can’t hear what they’re saying, the tone of the conversation takes a noticeable turn. The voices grow louder, and Emma can pick out the sound of Killian, anger pitching his voice lower.

 

That gets her moving, doing her best to be quiet as she darts into the bathroom and hurriedly pulls on her clothes. Liam must have been up when Killian went downstairs, and if the rising volume is any indication, he’s none too pleased that she’s spent the night. She meant to mention it to Killian, to ask how they were going to handle his brother, but she hadn’t expected to have to have the conversation at barely seven in the morning.

 

“…so bloody irresponsible? What sort of example are you setting for Liam, sneaking all these women into your bedroom in the middle of the night?”

 

Liam’s accusation stops Emma halfway down the stairs, her hand frozen on the banister. _All these women_. Is that what she is, just another notch on Killian’s belt? Has she read everything he’s said and done over the last two months wrong?

 

“Emma is not _women_ ,” Killian growls back, but the anger in his voice does little to quell the icy trickle of doubt dripping down Emma’s spine. “If you would stop being such a sanctimonious prick for a bloody—“

 

“I told you, Killian. I told you not to get involved with her. You have responsibilities to this family, and the last thing we need is someone else to take care of. After everything we’ve worked for, I refuse to watch some girl take advantage of you! I didn’t want to hire her in the first place, but her mother insisted, and—“

 

“Watch yourself, mate. You haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a woman got the better of you. I’m simply looking out for your best interests, little brother.”

 

“Leave her out of this.” There’s a muffled thud, as though one of them slammed a fist against the counter. “You bloody hypocrite! You think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking around yourself? Just because you don’t bring her here doesn’t mean I don’t know about Elsa.”

 

 _Elsa_?

 

“I _don’t_ bring her here. No one knows for this exact reason, you fool. Liam has had a hard enough time without rumors about his brothers. And what if he gets attached to one of them and it goes to hell? He already spends enough time with Emma.”

 

“You’re a bloody coward. If you think I have any intention of treating Emma like a dirty secret, you’re out of your fucking mind.” There’s a beat of silence, and then a quieter reply, vibrating with anger. “This conversation is over. I’m going back to bed. To _Emma_.”

 

She’s too stunned by everything she’s heard to register what he’s said, and it isn’t until his eyes meet hers that she realizes he’s found her on the staircase. His rage morphs into a deep sadness as he realizes she must have heard at least the end of the conversation, and Emma gulps down air as she gets to her feet.

 

She knows Liam doesn’t like her, but she’s never known _why_. That the job wasn’t so much a favor as her mother coercing Liam into it stings – the fact that he thinks she could be so pathetic as to take advantage of Killian is worse.

 

But the real blow comes from finding out she’s just one of Killian’s _women_ , that it isn’t the first time he’s brought someone home in the middle of the night just like, what had he called it, a _dirty secret_ – and that Elsa has been lying to her face for who the hell knows how long.

 

And Killian knew.

 

Mixed up in the sense of betrayal, Emma’s own anger fires to life. She wants to go give Liam a piece of her mind – to tell him that her successful, beautiful friend is far too good for him. That he doesn’t deserve her, that maybe Emma isn’t good enough for Killian, but Liam _definitely_ isn’t good enough for Elsa.

 

And if her friend hadn’t lied about all of it, she just might have.

 

Instead, she rises on shaky legs and descends the rest of the staircase, clutching the banister for support. “I quit,” she says quietly, her emotions so jumbled the words come out flat, as though the effort of picking one inflection over the other is too much of an effort.

 

It’s then that she notices Liam a few paces behind Killian, and Emma raises her voice as she turns her glassy eyes on him. “Did you hear that? I quit,” she repeats, ignoring Killian’s attempt to reach for her, coldly shrugging him off. “I’m not your problem anymore, because I _quit_.”

 

“Emma, wait, I—“

 

“She wants to quit, let her quit,” Liam cuts in, folding his arms and staring at Emma with scorn. “I hear she’s good at running away from her problems.”

 

Emma laughs, because it’s laugh or cry, and she just might cry anyway. The noise comes out bitter and choked despite herself, but she returns Liam’s scorn in kind. “We all have to be good at something, I guess.”

 

And then she does run, the cold November air cutting into her lungs. She runs all the way home, hastily packs a bag, scribbles a note for her parents, grabs the keys to her old Bug that isn’t registered or insured, and drives away.

 

-x-

 

Killian looks up from his dark phone screen, the anger and resentment toward his brother – and himself – never far from the surface after three days of silence from Emma. He hasn’t spoken to Liam since that morning, Emma’s departure resulting in a shouting match that had left both brothers apologizing to the younger Liam – but not to each other.

 

If he’s honest, the row has been brewing for some time. Liam and Killian don’t agree on much anymore – not how to raise their younger brother, not how to run the bar, and definitely not on the women in their lives.

 

Killian hated keeping things from Emma, but if her friend wasn’t willing to tell her about the relationship with Liam, then who was Killian to do so? Hindsight, and the deep, bruising hurt in Emma’s eyes as she’d sat frozen on the staircase, told him he should have told her anyway, sod the consequences.

 

And then there’s Liam’s irrational dislike of Emma. Well, it isn’t precisely _Emma_ Liam is so worried about as what she represents, or what he thinks she represents. His older brother hates being told what to do, and a large part of his bitterness stems from having to hire the lass in the first place. It doesn’t matter when Killian points out Emma has been doing a fine job of things – older brother did not and does not like Emma getting close to Killian or their younger brother. He _definitely_ didn’t like Killian coming home late, distracted and lost in thoughts of the enchanting blonde.

 

The things Liam said that morning in the kitchen weren’t anything new, and they’d argued about it before. Liam is convinced Emma’s past is a sure sign of her future, that she can’t be trusted not to run off at the first sign of difficulty, that she’s unstable and a bad choice for him _and_ their family, such as it is.

 

The fact that Emma has indeed done just that – taken off without another word and refused to answer her phone for days – has only solidified Liam’s certainty that he’s right about her.

 

But Killian isn’t so sure. He’s too angry to speak to Liam, but during lulls in business, he runs through his silent defenses – the Emma he found on the staircase was not the same Emma he’s come to know. He’s seen her stunned, and he’s seen her angry, and he’s seen her lost, but the sheer hurt ripping through her was new.

 

And it’s his own bloody fault.

 

No, that isn’t quite right either. Aye, he’s largely to blame – he should never have gone to bed with her, knowing how Liam feels about her. It would have been one thing to have her in the house after the day she’d had – Liam isn’t a monster; he would have understood her needing shelter in a storm – but Killian tangled himself irrevocably with her instead.

 

Yet he can’t shake the feeling that Liam _knew_ Emma was on the stairs. Why else would he have tossed out the _all these women_ comment? Aye, Killian is no saint, and there was a time where he’d perhaps been a bit careless about his bedmates, but there hasn’t been a woman in his bed since that first night he spent with Emma sitting on the dock.

 

“Which I’d have told her if she hadn’t bloody run off,” Killian grumbles under his breath, tossing his phone onto the bar in frustration and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, bright spots of color appearing in the blackness.

 

“So run after her.”

 

Killian’s eyes snap open at the sound of a female voice caught halfway between amusement and admonishment. Ruby Lucas is waiting for him, her arms folded across her chest and her brow raised. “How do you suppose I do that when I don’t know where she bloody is?” he demands, his lack of sleep and frayed nerves putting a bite into the question.

 

“You ask her friends, obviously.” Ruby rolls her eyes, taking a seat on one of the bar stools and drumming her nails on the bar. “She does this sometimes, you know. Runs away when she’s embarrassed or hurt, goes off to lick her wounds. She always comes back, eventually.” Ruby pauses, her painted lip caught between her teeth as doubt edges its way into her cool demeanor. “Sometimes it takes a while.”

 

“Have you spoken to her?”

 

“No, but I talked to Elsa.” There’s a challenge there, an underlying scorn that Killian instinctively knows has a lot more to do with Liam than it does with him, but it smarts nonetheless. “Between what she told me and the fact that Emma took off in a car that isn’t registered or insured, it isn’t hard to piece together.”

 

“She did _what_?”

 

Ruby waves her hand, dismissing that piece of the story. “Not important. Her dad’s a cop. He’ll take care of it if she gets pulled over. Though if that happened, we would have heard about it by now, so it’s safe to assume she made it.”

 

“Made it _where_?” Killian snaps, rapidly losing patience with Ruby’s cryptic tidbits of information. “I told you, I have no bloody idea where she—“

 

“She’s at her parents’ cabin a few hours from here,” the brunette cuts in. Rolling her eyes, she stretches over the bar, helping herself to the bottle of vodka she finds. “There’s no cell service, so whatever messages you’ve left her, she probably hasn’t heard them. And usually I’d just leave her be, but there’s a storm coming tonight, and I don’t know if she’ll come back on her own.”

 

“We’re only supposed to get a few inches of snow, if that.”

 

“Yeah, here.” Ruby taps the screen of his dark phone, sighing. “Where the cabin is, they’re saying almost two feet. Maybe more, depending on how the storm turns. She’ll get stuck up there if that’s the case, and while she can live on booze and grilled cheese for a few days…”

 

Killian eyes Ruby, swallowing hard as the implications of her visit becomes clear. “You wish for me to go fetch her?”

 

Ruby shrugs, throwing back her vodka and pouring another. “Bring her back, stay up there and get snowed in – with groceries – until you work it out, either way.” She sighs again, running her nail along the rim of the glass. “Listen, I’d go up there myself. It wouldn’t be the first time Elsa and I went to get her. But all things considered, this time…this time it should be you.”

 

“And if she doesn’t want to see me?”

 

That earns him a laugh and a shake of Ruby’s head. “Oh, she won’t,” she says with a smirk. Lifting her glass, she finishes her vodka and sets it down on the bar with a thud. When she turns to him again, her expression has grown serious, and she looks him straight in the eye as she says, “If you deserve her, you’ll find a way.”

 

She grabs a napkin, fishes a stick of eyeliner out of her bag, and scribbles an address. With a final arch of her eyebrow, she pushes the napkin toward him before walking out.

 

Killian is on the road within the hour.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like a visual, there is a very lovely photoset on Tumblr that lenfaz made me...


	4. Chapter 4

Emma is somewhere between waking and sleeping, her eyes unfocused on the ceiling timbers as she lies on the couch. Other than occasionally getting up to feed the wood stove, she hasn’t really moved all day.

 

It’s easier to stay in the haze of exhaustion than it is to blink her eyes in the watery winter light flooding through the windows. She’ll have to deal with it all eventually – someone is bound to show up looking for her – but for now, letting her hurts wrap around her and shelter her from reality takes less effort.

 

At the very least, the fire is going to need more wood shortly. She should go to the store too since she doesn’t plan to go back to Storybrooke anytime soon – she’s burned through the meager supply of soup and popcorn left in the pantry. There were a few things left in the freezer, but Emma threw them out when she first arrived, unsure if the power had gone in and out.

 

She’s almost worked up the energy to get off the couch when the sound of gravel crunching draws her bolt upright. _God dammit, Ruby_ , she thinks sourly, pushing her snarled hair off her face. She was hoping she would have at least a few more days before her friend showed up to drag her back, but it looks like she’s out of luck.

 

The knock on the door surprises her – Ruby has a key and isn’t shy about using it. “Forget your key?” Emma shouts, lurching to her feet and padding across the floor, grateful for the pair of wool socks she found in the bedroom. “I should leave you out there!”

 

“Aye, probably, but I’m hoping you won’t.” His voice is muffled by the door, but she can hear the exhaustion in it. And she honestly debates leaving him outside, but Killian is a stubborn man – she’s witnessed him engaged in a battle of wills too many times not to know it – and she doesn’t want to be responsible for him getting sick from the cold.

 

Suddenly very conscious of her unwashed hair and ragged state, Emma slowly opens the door to admit him, her eyes on the floor. “Ruby or my mother?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. Killian wouldn’t have gone to her mother – at least, she thinks he wouldn’t have – but Ruby would have gone to him.

 

“Ruby,” he confirms, turning to face her as she shuts the door. “There’s a storm coming, love.”

 

Emma shrugs, resuming her spot on the couch and stretching out. The move leaves him little choice but to take a seat on the threadbare recliner her father loves so much. “So let it. I’m fine. Not like there’s a job I need to get back to.” She doesn’t bother softening the edge in her voice.

 

“Ruby is… _I’m_ concerned about you here alone. They’re calling for more than a foot of snow.” His brow furrows, eyes drifting across the open living room to the kitchen counters where empty popcorn bags and soup cans litter the space. “Have you something other than popcorn if it does storm?”

 

Emma’s answer is to simply shrug again, not wanting to admit that she doesn’t have much of anything in the cabin. “I told you I don’t need a white knight. Go home, Killian,” she finally settles on, her temper beginning to flare. She came here to get away from all of this, to be alone, not to have Killian Jones and his hero complex show up on her doorstep.

 

“I will – if you come with me.”

 

“Seriously?” Her laugh is brittle, and his jaw tightens, but she keeps going before he can say anything else. “Why the hell would I do that? Where would I even go? Back to your place, with your brother who clearly hates me, be another notch on your belt? Back to my mom, who thinks it’s a good idea to give out phone numbers to the guy I ran halfway across the country to get away from? Or maybe I should go stay with Elsa, who’s been lying to me for months?” Emma folds her arms tightly across her chest, a defensive instinct as much as a move to keep her hands from shaking as anger rattles inside her chest like the wind on the windows. “Or maybe Ruby, who can’t keep her damned mouth shut?”

 

Killian leans forward, elbows on his knees, and for a moment, he simply hangs his head. But when he looks up at her, his emotions are laid bare and her heart instantly aches. All she can think about in those seconds is the hoarseness of his voice when he’d told his brother the conversation was over – that he was going back to _her_.

 

Then she notices the scabbed scrapes on his knuckles.

 

And she doesn’t care – she _doesn’t_ – but somehow the question comes out of her mouth anyway. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

 

A shadow passes through his eyes, his jaw tightening, and his eyes fall to his scrapes. “Nothing to trouble you with.”

 

“Killian.”

 

“I punched Liam,” he says after a lengthy pause. He doesn’t look up, his thumb brushing over the bruised skin. He doesn’t explain himself any further – and he doesn’t have to.

 

Because Emma knows just by the slump of his shoulders, by the defeat he wears like an old, ratty sweater, that he did it because of her. And she hates herself, because she despises that she’s come between them, for not being able to walk away when she should have – but after all the years of Neal’s indifference, there is something comforting about Killian’s protective instincts, as terribly misguided as they are.

 

“Will you at least let me take you to the store for groceries before it snows?” Killian finally asks when Emma remains silent, the pop of the fire louder than his soft question. “If you wish for me to go, I’ll go, but I can’t in good conscience leave you here to face the storm without provisions.”

 

“If I go, you’ll leave, no argument?”

 

“Aye.”

 

Emma leaves him there while she goes to change, shoving a hat over her hair and boots on her. She follows Killian into the gathering gray, the smell of wood smoke and snow on the air. They don’t speak as he drives, Emma staring out the window at the darkening sky and frowning when she realizes how deep the shadows are for barely three in the afternoon.

 

“Is it really supposed to be that bad?” she asks, frowning at the sky as Killian circles the Hannaford parking lot. She’s never seen the place this busy, and between that and the gust of frigid wind that nearly bowls her over when she gets out of his truck, Emma begins to wonder just what she’s in for.

 

Killian follows her gaze upward, his brow furrowing at the low hanging clouds. “Let’s not linger,” he says in response, and she sees the twitch of his hand as he goes to reach for her and stops himself.

 

Were it up to Emma, she’d buy some bread and cheese and beer and call it a day. Killian has other ideas, filling the cart with an assortment of fruit and meats to go along with her bread and cheese. “I’ll never eat all of this,” she begins, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “And since I’m unemployed, I can’t afford it.”

 

“I told you, love, I’m not leaving you alone up here without supplies.” Ignoring the comment regarding her employment entirely, he frowns at the contents of the cart, steering them down another aisle and grabbing two packs of batteries. “I’ll buy the bloody groceries. It’s the least I can do.”

 

She wants to argue, but the store is packed and she doesn’t want to get into it with him in the middle of an aisle crammed with people. So she mutters _fine_ under her breath and trails him through the rest of the aisles, begrudgingly picking out the cereal she likes and a box of tea.

 

He doesn’t ask when he grabs a bag of gourmet hot chocolate mix.

 

What should have been a ten-minute dash into the store drags into forty minutes by the time they’ve stood in the long line and gotten out the door. Emma hasn’t said anything to him beyond the required responses to his questions on her preferences, but it’s enough to thaw the icy silence between them into something more comfortable – something familiar.

 

“Is there anything else you need?” Killian asks as he turns the key in the ignition, reaching for the heat when he sees Emma shivering.

 

She opens her mouth to say something sarcastic and biting, but their eyes meet and she simply shakes her head, her teeth sinking into her lip. Some part of her recognizes that she should at least hear him out, listen to whatever came after _Emma, wait,_ but she doesn’t want to have that conversation trapped in an enclosed space with him for the next half hour.

 

They’re halfway back when it starts to snow.

 

Emma doesn’t notice at first, watching the bare branches whip past from her spot curled tightly against the door, putting as much distance between herself and Killian as possible. Her stomach flips when the streaks of white register, and for a moment, she wonders if he planned to get stuck here with her. But just as quickly, she dismisses the thought as ridiculous. Killian can no sooner control the tides than the weather. She just hopes they get back to the cabin before it starts coming down in earnest.

 

“Is there still cell service here?” Killian asks, breaking her out of her thoughts.

 

“Yeah. It cuts out a few miles from the house.” Emma’s phone is sitting on the passenger seat of the Bug, the battery probably dead by now. She doesn't care. There's no service at the cabin, and she didn't bother listening to the voicemails from Elsa and Ruby when she had the chance.

 

“Would you check the weather map please?” He hands her his phone after holding his thumb down to unlock it. Emma takes it gingerly, trying not to notice that it’s warm from his pocket as she pulls up the app.

 

A red, angry banner greets her. “Blizzard warning,” she tells him, closing her eyes in dismay after glancing at the radar. “This is the very edge of it. It’s only going to get worse.” She doesn’t tell him that the storm sits between the cabin and Storybrooke, an angry, deep blue swath of heavy snow forming a barrier to the south she’d have to be heartless to send him into, even with a truck that has to have four-wheel drive.

 

“Then I’d best get you settled in and be on my way,” Killian says after a pause, taking his phone back and plugging it into the car charger. Hoping that by some miracle the storm shifts out of his path, Emma says nothing – nothing about the path of the storm, nothing about the wind gusts that will top 60mph, nothing about the blowing and drifting that will bathe the world in white for days to come.

 

She tells herself he’ll be fine, that it’s just snow, that he knew the storm was coming and dithered about up here anyway, taking her to the store and buying half of the groceries in it. But as the snow picks up and swirls around them, the wind howling through the trees, Emma knows that no matter how much she wants to be alone or how uncertain she is about Killian, he’s spending the night.

 

Still, she waits to see if he asks, if this was all just a ploy to force his company on her – but when he’s handed her the final bag of groceries, he gives her a tight smile and heads for the door.

 

“Killian,” she calls after him, and in the beat of silence that follows, the house creaks with the fury of the wind, a faint howl sending a shiver down her spine. It’s cold in the cabin, the fire down to just embers, and Emma takes a deep breath as he turns back to her. “The roads are going to be terrible. There aren’t lights out here, and I don’t want to be responsible for you ending up in a ditch.”

 

He smiles faintly, but his hand is still on the door. “Thank you for your concern, Swan, but I assure you, should I end up in a ditch it will be entirely my fault.” She isn’t sure he’s just talking about ditches anymore, but he sighs and opens the door.

 

She should let him leave – she’s made the offer, and he’s declined it. But her chest tightens as she watches him bow his head against the wind, snowflakes sticking to his dark hair as the door starts to close, and she calls his name again. “Stay,” she says when he looks back over his shoulder. “I want you to stay,” she adds, swallowing hard – the second she says it, she knows it’s true, but the admission reveals more than she intends to. “I mean, I want you to be safe, and if you stay…you can sleep on the couch and drive home tomorrow when it’s light out.”

 

It’s not the most heartfelt of invitations, but he nods. “As you wish. I’ll split a bit of wood then, before it gets worse.” With a tight smile, he grabs the axe resting just inside the door and heads for the woodpile off the back of the house, snow clinging to his shoulders.

 

The steady _thunk_ of the axe on wood sounds before long as Killian falls into a rhythm, and Emma puts away the groceries listening to him work after building up the fire. She goes up into the attic to find the cooler, giving it a quick cleaning once it’s found – if the power _does_ go out, she can pack the cooler with snow to keep the perishable food from spoiling.

 

By the time she finishes, Killian is still splitting logs. She pads over to the window, surreptitiously peeking out through the curtains to watch him. A bolt of desire smashes into her as he lifts the axe and brings it down in one graceful motion, the logs splintering apart with the impact. He’s already got an ample pile of wood, but he keeps going, and Emma wonders if she isn’t the only one up here hiding from reality.

 

Eventually, he stops, and there’s a different thud of wood being stacked on the porch, out of the worst of the snow. By the time Killian comes back through the door stomping snow from his boots, his cheeks are red from the cold, his eyes watering and nose running, flecks of ice and snow clinging to his scruff. He’s got a small duffle bag on his shoulder, and when her eyes fall to it, he explains, “Holdover from the Navy days. I wasn't certain I would make it home and thought it best to be prepared.”

 

“Oh,” she replies, not knowing what else to say. She doesn’t entirely believe that he didn’t pack the bag for the express purpose of possibly getting stuck up here with her, but she doesn’t have any proof beyond his nervousness – which could be easily explained by so many other things. “You were in the Navy?”

 

“Aye, myself and Liam both. It was before…before we became responsible for our brother.” Killian pushes back the damp hair hanging in his eyes, and whether it’s soaked in sweat or snow, Emma isn’t sure. “There should be plenty of wood split for you, however long you decide to stay.”

 

“Thanks.” Emma shifts her weight, grasping for something to say that isn’t _why did you even come up here_ or some other version of it. “You should probably shower to warm up,” she settles on instead, internally wincing at the entire conversation. She and Killian may or may not be many things, but they're not strangers – why are they talking as if they are?

 

He nods, scooping up his bag and following her to the bathroom. His eyes linger on the deep soaking tub, but he takes the towel she offers and pushes back the shower curtain. With a glance back at her, his expression shifts, and the blatant _want_ in his eyes nearly convinces her to join him then and there.

 

But that won’t solve anything – it will only delay the conversation she knows they’re going to have one way or the other. So Emma ducks out of the bathroom and puts a pot of water on to boil to make pasta. Now that she’s up and moving, her stomach is reminding her – loudly – that she had a bowl of instant oatmeal when she woke up and nothing since.

 

Killian emerges as she’s dumping the pasta into boiling water, his face now flushed from the hot water. He’s changed into sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his feet bare on the wood floors. “I forgot socks,” he says by way of explanation when she glances down. “I’ll put the others on when they dry.”

 

“Watch this.” Emma gestures to the bubbling water before disappearing into the bedroom. She emerges with a pair of her father’s wool socks, tossing them to Killian before resuming her dinner preparations – which mostly amounts to watching the pasta boil and avoiding Killian’s eyes.

 

“Emma, about Liam,” he says after he’s pulled the socks on, his voice low and hesitant as a schoolboy. “I—“

 

“Can we not?” she interrupts, sparing him a glance over her shoulder and studiously avoiding his injured hand. “Can we just eat dinner? And then I’d really like to take a bath.”

 

And anything else she can come up with to put the conversation off.

 

The look he gives her says he knows what she’s about, but he nods anyway and goes to fuss with the fire while Emma finishes. They eat in silence, the house creaking around them and the flames dancing behind the glass door of the woodstove. Killian offers to clean up while Emma has her bath, and she doesn’t argue, glad for the excuse to disappear behind a closed door, taking her fears and desires along with her.

 

It takes a while for the tub to fill, and Emma occupies herself by lighting the handful of candles left from the last time her parents were here, banishing any thought of what might have gone on in the bathroom. Though that sends her mind down another path, one that involves Killian, and maybe she should ask him to join her – maybe if she let him put his arms around her, they wouldn’t have to have a conversation and things would work themselves out.

 

But since she can’t get Liam’s _all these women_ out of her head, Emma closes the door on the thought as she slides into the water with a hiss, the heat almost unbearable. After a minute, her skin adjusts to the temperature, and Emma leans back. She closes her eyes and listens to the storm, the wind picking up and the trees groaning. It’s only a matter of time before the power goes out, and a part of her hopes it does – it will be a good excuse to simply go to bed.

 

The power doesn’t go out.

 

Emma stays in the bath until the water cools, reluctantly leaving her sanctuary to dress in the bedroom. She debates staying there, but she can hear Killian pacing, and she can’t put him off forever.

 

“Better?” he asks when she emerges, the scent of chocolate and cinnamon mingling with the fire. Killian stands at the stove, slowly stirring what has to be hot chocolate, shifting his weight and setting the floorboards to creaking.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She takes up a spot against the opposite counter, her sleeves shoved up to her elbows with the warmth of the bath still radiating from her skin. Killian’s t-shirt clings to his back, the fabric taut between his shoulder blades and hugging the curve of his shoulders. She has the inexplicable urge to press her cheek against the soft cotton, to tuck her body close against his and run her fingers over his skin, but she stands frozen in her spot. “You don’t have to do all this,” she finally says, unable to stand the tension growing between them. “The groceries and the hot chocolate and all…this.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

“Then…why?”

 

Killian doesn’t answer her right away, turning off the burner and carefully pouring the molten chocolate into the mugs he has waiting. It’s only after he’s handed her hers that he speaks, his fingers curled around his own mug. “Has it occurred to you that I might simply want to?”

 

“No,” she replies bluntly, staring down into her drink as though it might possess the secrets of how to have this conversation without losing a piece of herself she’ll never get back. “Is this how you are with all of your women?” she adds, unable to stop herself from spitting it out – after all, that’s what’s really bothering her more than anything. She already knew Liam doesn't like her, so even though his words stung, they aren’t the reason she’s upset with Killian.

 

His wince reads as confirmation, and Emma puts down her drink so fast the hot liquid sloshes over her hand. She curses, hot chocolate getting everywhere, and turns to stick her hand under cold water, hyperaware of Killian hovering, uncertain as to whether she’ll accept his help or not.

 

“Liam said that specifically to drive you off,” he says when she shuts off the water, a hint of reproach in his voice. “If you had let me explain, I’d have told you then and there that you’re it. There haven’t been any other women since we met.”

 

The admission takes the edge off the knife Emma has been carrying around between her ribs, but it’s not enough. “And before?” she asks, forcing herself to turn away from the sink and face him.

 

The tips of Killian’s ears darken, but to his credit, he doesn’t look away. “I’m not proud of everything I’ve done,” he finally says, setting his own mug down and inching closer. “But I’ve always been clear about my intentions.”

 

“You call this clear?”

 

His brow furrows at that, genuine confusion marring his features. “Surely, you must know how I feel about you. I haven’t been subtle.”

 

“I know you want to have sex with me. Again.” It’s not fair, and she _knows_ it’s not all he wants from her – that isn’t what the nights on the dock were about, isn’t what the late night conversations after closing or the coffees he brought her after especially late nights were ever about.

 

But it’s a lot easier to believe than to consider the alternative after everything Liam said.

 

“Is that truly what you think of me?” Emma doesn’t answer, uncertain of exactly how to respond, but he takes her silence as confirmation and nods, resignation in his voice. “Then I suppose that’s that. I’ll be on my way in the morning.”

 

He waits a beat, and Emma can see the naked longing on his face, the desire and sorrow all mixed up in those blue, blue eyes of his – like he’s still holding out hope after everything they’ve said to each other. And if he were to kiss her, Emma knows she wouldn’t push him away, knows she wouldn’t be able to, but when he simply stands there, waiting for her answer, she doesn’t have the courage to meet him halfway.

 

So she slips past him with a mumbled _drive safe_ , tears burning her eyes by the time she closes the bedroom door. His low curse is audible through the wood, and that’s almost enough for her to change her mind, but she can’t seem to move, her legs locked in place. It grows quiet before long, only the wrath of the storm rattling the windows audible over her own breaths, and Emma crawls into bed.

 

Alone.

 

-x-

 

Emma sleeps fitfully, but somewhere before dawn, she gives up and simply lies in bed, staring up into the shadows and listening to the storm, which shows no signs of slowing. It’s cold in the cabin, the fire likely burnt low with no one awake to tend it, and with reluctance, she pulls back the blankets to go throw a log on.

 

Killian is asleep on the couch, and though she tells herself to add the wood to the fire and go back to bed, she finds herself watching him. His face is relaxed, and she remembers, vividly remembers, how it felt to be in his arms as she drifted off to sleep – finally, finally safe. It’s a feeling she never got with Neal, a certainty that he would be there when she woke up.

 

And he was. At first, anyway. If Liam hadn’t been awake, if Killian had truly just gone downstairs and come right back up, where would she be now? Would they have come here together to have some time to themselves before dealing with Liam? Would they be curled together in Killian’s bed, his heartbeat under her ear? Instead of waking alone in the cold cabin, would she instead wake to watch the way his eyelids flutter as he dreams, his breath warm on her throat?

 

Emma remembers the way he looked at her that night, before it all went to hell – as though he couldn’t quite believe she was in his arms, in his bed.

 

She remembers other things, the longer she stands there watching his chest rise and fall with each breath – a muffin on the bar, a travel mug of hot chocolate, an embrace on a windy, dark deck holding her together just when she needed it most.

 

A hot mug of cider, bright blue eyes intent on hers, his lip curling into an affectionate smirk while pulling pumpkin guts from her hair – the way his eyes shifted, and if it hadn't been for Liam plopping another chunk of seeds loudly onto the table next to them, he might have kissed her then and there.

 

And then there was the fierce protectiveness with which he’d reacted to Neal’s call – how he'd stayed with her without overwhelming her, just _there_. Not threatening to go after Neal, not telling her what she needed to do, but just _there_ , waiting within her reach if she wanted him.

 

Driving hours up here to make sure she was safe. Buying her groceries. Splitting wood. Nearly leaving in a goddamn blizzard because he thought she wanted him gone.

 

It’s an awful lot of effort if all he wants is to get laid, isn't it?

 

_You’re a bloody coward. If you think I have any intention of treating Emma like a dirty secret, you’re out of your fucking mind._

 

His words come back to her, the vehemence of his tone and the cold fury with which he’d responded to his brother’s accusations and insults. And the longer Emma stands there, the room chilly around her, the harder she tries to come up with anything _Killian_ said in the conversation that was something other than a defense of her – anything Killian said at all to give her a reason to think he saw her as little more than an evening’s entertainment.

 

She comes up empty.

 

Emma’s teeth sink into her lip as she turns toward the woodstove, resolutely setting about the task she came into the living room for. She nearly burns herself in the process, her hands shaking and her heart racing. It’s a miracle Killian doesn’t wake up with all her fumbling and the clanging of metal on metal.

 

But once she’s finished, she inches closer, the thread between them tugging her along until she’s standing next to him, her fingers hovering over his brow, and he shifts in his sleep, turning into her touch. And Emma stands there, frozen in indecision, the storm raging in the darkest part of night, the fire roaring to life behind her, and her heart stuck between the two.

 

Killian stirs, mumbling something under his breath too faint to decipher, and she’s not sure he’s awake until he rolls onto his side and lifts his arm, the blanket falling back to reveal his relaxed limbs. He doesn’t open his eyes, and he doesn’t say anything, the invitation speaking for itself.

 

Emma takes it.

 

Despite the coolness of the cabin, Killian is a furnace beneath the quilt, and Emma presses close, burying her face in his chest and breathing him in, woodsmoke clinging to his shirt. His warmth envelops her, and it should be harder after everything they’ve been through, but much like the night in his bedroom, once she stops fighting it isn’t difficult at all.

 

His arm settles snug around her, and he shifts again, until he's on his back with her sprawled half on top of him. “All right, love?” The words are thick with sleep, his fingers trailing up her back to tangle in her hair. Beneath her, he remains relaxed, warm and content as a cat in a window on a sunny day. Emma marvels at that, her fingers curling at his hip, grounding her to a man with far more patience than she probably deserves.

 

“Go back to sleep,” she says softly, the words half lost to his chest as she snuggles in closer, a gust of wind rattling the windows. The couch really isn’t big enough for both of them, and there’s a perfectly good bed just down the hall, but she can’t bear the thought of shattering the quiet peace between them. Killian’s lips brush against her hair, and it’s the last thing she knows before unconsciousness claims her.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Her nose is cold.

 

The rest of her is not.

 

Before she even manages to crack open her eyes, Emma realizes why that is – the storm hasn’t let up, and the logs she threw on the fire hours ago are nearly burned through. The cabin has grown cold, but Emma remains wrapped up tightly in Killian’s arms, their bodies wedged together on the narrow sofa.

 

They’re going to have to have a discussion about this. Emma. Killian. The things Liam said about her that morning while she sat on the stairs of their home, her skin still tingling with Killian’s touch. Killian driving all the way out here with a blizzard coming just to make sure she’s safe.

 

The things they said to each other last night – the things _she_ said.

 

The fact that at some dark hour of the night, she ended up here, in his arms, every inch of their bodies touching despite his vow to be gone in the morning.

 

It’s morning. He isn’t gone – and she doesn't want him to be.

 

Emma nuzzles closer, pressing her cold nose to the warm skin of his neck. The hand at her hip tightens beneath the quilt, and she realizes that at some point during the night, his fingers dipped beneath the waist of her pants, his callused palm resting on bare skin. “Killian?” she whispers, unsure if he’s awake or not.

 

He doesn’t respond, and she breathes out slowly, somewhat relieved. Awake Killian is bound to want to have that conversation she’s dreading, but asleep, he’s far less threatening. She breathes in slowly, her eyes slipping shut as she relaxes back into the cozy warmth of his body surrounding her. Their legs are twisted together, and the longer she lays in his arms, the more aware she becomes of his thigh between hers.

 

Telling herself to stop, she tries to go back to sleep, to sink back into the blissfully uncomplicated unconsciousness she’s known for hours – but it doesn’t work. All she can think about is the slide of his skin against hers, and then her hand slips under his shirt, her palm flat over the soft line of hair that disappears beneath his pants.

 

Killian shifts, his abs tensing under her fingers, but the movement jostles Emma enough that her lips, already so close to his neck, brush against the tender skin. A low groan escapes him, and Emma’s thighs tighten around his leg as her hand begins to wander. But the soft sigh she gets in response isn’t quite what she wants, so she presses closer before nipping at his throat, her tongue dragging over the spot as his breath stutters.

 

There’s a hint of a question in her name when he mumbles it, but his grip on her only tightens. Her stretch to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw starts it and his tug on her finishes it, leaving Emma sprawled on top of him, the bulge in his sweatpants nestled neatly between her thighs. She grinds her hips down as she adjusts her position, her teeth catching his earlobe as the rumble in his chest echoes through hers.

 

She feels his hesitation, the way his other hand hovers over her for a breath before a soft growl escapes him, his fingers diving into her hair and tugging just hard enough to bring her mouth to his. His other hand leaves her hip, continuing beneath her pants to grip her ass as he pushes up, their kiss swallowing Emma’s gasp.

 

Despite the persistent ache between her legs, she doesn’t rush. Everything happened so quickly that first night, and maybe she’s stalling because they’re trapped in the cabin by the storm, but maybe it’s simply that she wants to enjoy it more this time, linger in the delicious torture of wanting him so badly she might crawl out of her skin. Whatever her reasons, Killian has his own, his arm wrapped snugly around her back to keep her in place as they kiss, his other hand dragging along the base of her spine.

 

But when his lips leave hers and begin a trail down her neck, his hand moves again, and he groans when he meets nothing but bare skin beneath her shirt. Emma lifts her weight off him slightly at his nudge, his hand sliding between them, kneading her breast and pinching her nipple hard enough to make her jerk against him. His laugh washes over her skin, all damp warmth dripping with promise as he rolls his hips up into hers in response, and even if every window shattered and the storm raged in, Emma would still be on fire in his arms.

 

She pushes herself up long enough to strip off her shirt, the quilt pooling at her hips and the cold air stiffening her already sensitive nipples. She basks in the liquid desire swimming in Killian’s eyes as he looks up at her, his lips swollen from their kisses and parted as he draws one ragged breath after another, but Emma wants his skin on hers more than she wants to be admired, so she doesn’t waste another moment before taking hold of the hem of his shirt.

 

The coarse hair on his chest creates a delightful friction as she drags her breasts over him, trailing open-mouthed kisses in her wake. Killian’s breaths grow increasingly uneven as she descends down his body, licking and nipping, her teeth dragging over his nipples. His fingers tighten in her hair, his grip just shy of painful, and she’s about to sink lower, but he isn’t having that.

 

Killian’s kisses are hungry, demanding as his lips capture hers, and his hands are no less greedy, though his touch returns to light, teasing. It’s a heady, intoxicating limbo of lust and pleasure, but the longer it goes on, Emma wants – needs – more. When they break apart gasping, she shimmies down beneath the quilt, thanking the universe for the elastic band of his pants that’s easy enough to push out of her way.

 

He’s reaching for her before she starts, but his grip changes when her tongue touches him, swirling teasingly before taking him into her mouth. Her pulse is already pounding between her legs, but the strain of his hips and the ragged string of curses Killian is letting loose intensifies the ache. Still, she doesn’t want to stop, too lost in the exquisite pleasure of his responses to her, the bitten off words and the low noises he can’t contain.

 

He tries to stop her, to pull her back, but Emma ignores the light tug on her hair, her free hand moving to massage between his legs, the delicate skin hot beneath her fingers, and whatever resistance he’s managed evaporates as she sweeps her tongue over him again and again.

 

Beneath her, his body tenses as he grows close, and she hums her encouragement. Her thighs are slick with her own arousal, but she keeps going, and when her name leaves his lips in a hoarse shout, she swallows everything he has to give her before releasing him with a final swipe of her tongue.

 

“Bloody minx,” he growls, breathless and boneless, though that doesn’t stop him from moving. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, and he doesn’t hesitate before flipping her onto her back and kissing her, an all-consuming kiss with a needy edge as he uses a free hand to push his pants off.

 

He runs his hands over her sides as they kiss, hooking his fingers into the waist of her pants and shoving them over her hips. There’s a brief struggle for her to kick them the rest of the way off, and Emma can’t help the small giggle at their mutual frustration, but the end result finds them both naked.

 

“How long do you need?” she manages to ask, momentarily hating herself as she realizes that as badly as she wants him inside her, he’s going to need a minute or two until he’s ready.

 

Killian follows the direction of her nod and glances down, but the grin he gives her is predatory. “Don’t you worry about that, love,” he whispers against her ear, his tongue tracing the shell as his fingers slip between her legs, and his breath catches as he finds her slippery and aching. “I have no intention of keeping you waiting.”

 

Before she can ask, her thighs are on his shoulders and his mouth is between her legs. The scratch of his scruff is just as she imagined it, slightly harsh against such sensitive skin and a direct contrast to the velvet of his tongue. Emma is so worked up she’s certain it will be over in seconds, but Killian draws it out, touching her too lightly to push her over the edge. The tip of his tongue dances a meandering path, first lapping at her most sensitive spots, then leisurely thrusting inside of her until she’s panting and desperate. When he finally curls his fingers and sucks hard, Emma’s back arches in a silent scream as her release hits her like a freight train.

 

He strokes her through it, but as her muscles begin to loosen, he slides her legs off his shoulders and lines himself up. Emma’s eyes pop open when she feels him there, and even in the haze of the aftershocks, a thrill runs up her spine. He’s hard and ready, and she didn't touch him – he got there simply by pleasuring her. It's a heady realization, and fiercely erotic.

 

She nods at the faint question in his expression. It’s impossible to keep her eyes open, though, when he presses forward, the sensation of him inside her nearly overwhelming with how sensitive her body remains in the aftermath of his attentions.

 

“Bloody hell, I could watch you come all night.” His voice is raspy, his breaths punctuated by each thrust of his hips. His chuckle is low, vibrating through his chest. “Or all day.”

 

The words momentarily pull her out of the present, remind Emma that as nice of a thought as it is, they won’t be able to spend the entire day having sex. At some point, they’re going to have to talk – but not yet. So she pulls him down for another kiss, wrapping one of her legs around his and urging him deeper.

 

He breaks the kiss before long, shifting to change the angle, and each time he pushes forward, Emma’s breath catches. “Right there,” she gasps, and her eyes fly open to watch him, intent and consumed with pleasure as he moves above her.

 

His hips snap into hers, harder, faster, and she digs her nails into his bicep, her other hand fisted in the forgotten quilt as pressure builds at the base of her spine. Maybe that first night wasn’t their best work, but tonight, today, whatever time it is lost in the murky grey light of the storm, they are electric.

 

And by the time he collapses onto her, both of them are trembling with the force of their orgasms. Emma’s fingers are still tight around his arms, the tremors of the muscle struggling to keep his full weight off her trembling beneath her touch. All she wants is to curl back into him, to go back to sleep with this boneless contentment flooding her veins, but Killian gets to his feet after a moment, kissing her fingers at her quiet protest. “Just a moment, love.”

 

Despite the coolness of the cabin, he pads around nude, and she can hear the rasp of his panting breaths as he bends to tend the wood stove. The fire has nearly gone out, and without Killian’s body against hers, the cold air on her damp skin sends a violent shiver through her. But he’s back as quickly as he promised, and he pulls her up into his arms, quilt and all.

 

And for a moment, they stand there next to the couch, sharing the quilt and kissing, slow, languid kisses, but he has them shuffling back to the bedroom before long. It’s colder further away from the fire, and Emma shivers again, pressing closer.

 

“Get in bed, love,” he murmurs in her ear, goosebumps rising under her fingers on his skin as he leans away from her to pull the covers back. She’s too tired to argue, burrowing beneath the blankets and sighing with relief when he joins her, his body warm and his heartbeat still hammering away beneath her ear. She stretches luxuriously, the bed even more inviting after the cramped hours on the couch, and Emma has just enough time to consider what they could get up to in this bed the rest of the day before she’s asleep.

 

-x-

 

It’s impossible to tell the hour when Emma wakes again, the light filtering through the windows the same murky gray. It might still be snowing – it might just be the wind blowing the drifts around – but beneath the warm blankets and tucked into Killian’s side, Emma is toasty.

 

She sighs as she becomes aware of his touch, his knuckles dragging lightly up and down her spine beneath the sheet. And for a moment, she just lays there, listening to him breathe and the wind howl, wishing they could simply stay as they are forever. Talking will ruin it – he’ll bring up feelings, and Emma will freak out because she’s not even close to ready for that, and they’ll still be stuck up here together in the snow. It would be so much easier if they could just...not.

 

He catches her wrist as her hand passes his hip, stopping her from initiating a second round of their morning’s entertainment. She expects him to say something, to admonish her or go into a lengthy explanation of all the reasons they shouldn’t have had sex again, but instead he laces their fingers together and pulls her hand out from under the covers to kiss her fingers.

 

“What time is it?” Emma asks, needing to break the silence – it’s too heavy, too _intimate,_ and the question seems as innocuous as they come.

 

“Just after two.”

 

“It’s so dark.”

 

“Aye. Storm hasn’t let up, far as I can tell.” He flips over his hand, his index finger now tracing the column of her spine, dipping into the dimples at its base before meandering lower.

 

“Power?”

 

“Lights were working about an hour ago when I threw another log on, but it must have flickered at some point. The clock on the microwave was blinking.”

 

“Mmm.” Emma nuzzles her lips against his chest, pressing closer. “I should run a bath then while we have the water. It’s bound to go soon.” She presses a kiss just below the hollow of his throat, stretching against him, the motion creating friction on her tender breasts. “The hot water will feel good.”

 

He doesn’t pull away when she kisses him, but the kiss he gives her is soft, lingering, and not at all what she wants.

 

“Emma…” He sighs as he murmurs her name, his breath washing over her. “We have to talk about all of this, love.”

 

“Can’t we just...enjoy being here?”

 

“Do you truly believe my desire for you is only physical?” he asks after a hesitation, his arms tightening around her. “That everything I want from you can be found between these sheets?”

 

Emma doesn’t answer him right away, struggling to come up with an adequate reply, but when he shifts his weight as though he might get out of the bed, she clings to him. “It would be easier that way,” she finally settles on, her chest tight. “For you. For your family.” Her eyes drop to his hands, and she swallows hard. “And...for me.”

 

“Aye, easier.” The word twists from his lips, jagged and sharp. “Is that truly what you desire?”

 

“Yes.” She squeezes her eyes shut, taking a shaky breath. “No. I mean. Yes and no.” His fingers move up her back in a soothing stroke, and the gesture grounds her, helps her to find the words. “It would be less complicated. I’m...bad at complicated.”

 

“Allow me to uncomplicate it, love. I want you. All of you, not just the easy bits.”

 

“But Liam–”

 

“Sod Liam. What do _you_ want, Emma? I suspect that question has been all too rare in your life.”

 

Her instinct is to snap at him, to tell him he doesn’t know a damn thing about her – but he’s right. It’s been a long time since anyone has actually _asked_ Emma what she wants. The people she loves mean well, but her mother, her father, hell, even Ruby – they all have a nasty tendency of pushing her along the path they think will make her happy.

 

But walking away from Neal changed her, and Emma isn’t the same person she once was. The things she wants for herself aren’t grand, but they are things _she_ wants, and Killian...she definitely wants Killian.

 

“I want it to keep snowing so we never have to leave.” It’s the truth, after all, and it’s the closest she can seem to come to telling him what he wants to hear. “I want to stay here, with you, just the two of us.”

 

He squeezes her hand in response, kissing her hair. “As lovely as that would be, we’d get hungry eventually, darling.”

 

“Not for a long time. You bought half the store.”

 

Killian’s laughter shakes his whole body, jostling Emma, but the joke shifts his mood. He rolls her onto her back, hovering over her with the blankets pulled to his shoulders. “Do you still want that bath?”

 

She nods, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him back down for another lingering kiss. Just as she’s beginning to think maybe she doesn’t want the bath after all, Killian leans back, brushing her hair away from her eyes, his expression soft. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

He slips out of the bed, scooping up the quilt they’d left on the floor and wrapping it around his shoulders before padding out into the cabin. Emma lays back, listening to the creak of the wood stove door, the pop and crackle of the fire as he stokes it higher, but the bath isn’t going to run itself.

 

Killian takes longer than she expects, the tub nearly full when he appears in the doorway. He pulled on his pants at some point, the quilt nowhere to be seen, and he’s holding two steaming mugs of coffee along with a plate of cheese and fruit. His eyes glow in the soft candlelight, roaming over her naked limbs, and she can see his throat bob as he swallows, watching her lean forward to turn off the taps.

 

The sudden quiet that descends over them when the water stops rushing ratchets the tension back up, but Emma resists the urge to drag him back to bed, knotting her hair quickly on top of her head before sinking into the near-scalding water with a moan of pleasure. Killian is still watching her, molten heat practically dripping from him as he sets down the food and drinks within Emma’s reach and strips off his pants.

 

It’s Emma’s turns to stare, her eyes devouring his body. He’s hard again, though he makes no mention of it as he gets into the bath with her, hissing at the heat. “Like it hot, do you, Swan?” he murmurs in her ear as they settle in together, his cock nestled into the small of her back.

 

“Very.” Her voice is not her own, sultry and hoarse, and when his arms come around her, she doesn’t hesitate before guiding one of his hands to her breast. He takes the hint easily enough, his other hand reaching between her legs. Emma’s back arches, her breath catching as he begins to touch her almost lazily, cupping her with one hand and lightly rolling her nipple with the other.

 

Her gasping breaths echo off the tile, the soft _swish_ of drifting snow outside mingling with the quiet splashes of water as Killian’s hands move beneath the surface, teasing her, toying with her, as her head lolls back against his shoulder, his lips on her throat. She makes a move to turn in his arms, to take what she so desperately wants, but his grip tightens, keeping her where she is with a low chuckle.

 

“You’re quite beautiful, love.” His breath is hot on her ear, and he shifts, his palm pressing harder as he slides a finger inside her. “This, aye, this is a magnificent sight. I would be hard pressed to choose between this and your smile in the moonlight, but I believe my favorite is the look in your eyes just before you kiss me.” Killian’s lips are on hers before she can open her eyes, her neck stretched to kiss him back, her body taut in his arms as he winds her tighter and tighter with each brush of his fingers.

 

She swears as the kiss breaks, breathing hard as she teeters on the edge, and then she’s falling, her body Killian’s to do with as he pleases. His strokes grow lighter, easing her back into her skin as her eyes blink open to stare at him in wonder. The steam from the bath has curled his hair slightly, his cheeks red from the heat, or his arousal, or both. She can feel him still against her back, rock hard, and he groans when she pushes into him, his lips brushing her temple. “Later, love,” he manages to say, easing back against the edge of the tub and taking her with him. “It will keep. Relax.”

 

Emma wants to protest, but Killian reaches one arm over the side to hand her a mug of coffee, still hot, and she concedes for the moment, floating along in a cloud of pleasure. It’s nicer than she expected, sharing the bath with him and watching the storm through the windows, candlelight casting shadows on the tile – and it’s not all that different from their nights on the dock, despite their nakedness and where Killian’s hands just were.

 

“I won’t hide you from him,” Killian says eventually, the slight tension in his body the only warning she gets. “I won’t hide _us_. I felt it wasn’t my place to tell you about Elsa, but perhaps I should have.”

 

“ _She_ should have.” Emma sighs, not particularly wanting to talk about her friend and his brother while they’re in the bath together, but with how relaxed she is, it’s as good a time as any. “I don’t do well being lied to.”

 

“Aye, on that we agree.” His breath catches, despite his attempt to hide it with a light kiss on her cheek. “Liam is...he’s always felt it his duty to watch over us. First me, then Liam. It’s left him...I believe he feels cheated, at times. I’ve told him to live his life, that he’s sacrificed enough, but he’s a stubborn fool on occasion.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

Killian’s laugh is dry, bordering on bitter. “Mum passed when I was but eight. My father stuck around – if it could be called that – until I was fourteen or so, but Liam got me through our mother’s funeral, and Liam was the one who raised me.

 

“We enlisted together, mostly to escape our father, and for almost two years, I thought perhaps we’d made it. He was still alive, mind you, but we hadn’t the faintest idea where he was or what he’d gotten up to. Neither of us knew of the younger Liam’s existence, and we didn’t find out until we were granted leave to see to our father’s affairs after he was found dead down by the docks. Drank himself to death.” Killian stops talking abruptly, as though the words have simply been cut out of him. Emma sets down her coffee and reaches for his hand beneath the water, lacing their fingers together and turning to place a gentle kiss on his shoulder. “There was...a letter, buried at the bottom of a drawer, that had never been opened. It was from Liam’s mother, begging our father to come back to her and their son.

 

“It was a shock to us both, that he had another family – but it was worse that he’d simply recycled one son’s name for another. Obviously this was none of the boy’s fault, and we set things in motion as quickly as we could to get in touch with him. When his mother found out about us, she left him on our doorstep and was never heard from again.”

 

Emma wishes she could be surprised at the callous treatment of the Jones brothers by their parents, but having been abandoned herself, the only emotion she can summon is a deep, blinding rage at the people who treated Killian and his family so poorly. She does turn in his arms then, water sloshing everywhere as she presses her mouth to his, her arm dripping water onto the floor as she winds it around his neck. She doesn’t say she’s sorry – she knows it doesn’t help, knows that _sorry_ is a word he’s likely heard too many times, just as she has. Words don’t mean a lot to people like them, not after everything that’s happened despite promises to stay, promises to do better, promises promises promises…

 

But her lips on his, the kiss they share, that’s a different kind of promise, and when she leans back, her other hand resting on his chest, she smiles, scratching her nails lightly through the short, fine hairs at the base of his head. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, watching him as he finds her hand, lacing their fingers together and lifting until he can press his lips to the inside of her wrist. “I’m glad...you came after me.”

 

“I would have come sooner if I’d known where you were.” He pauses, his expression serious. “Liam only thinks his problem is with you. His problem is with himself. I suspect upon further reflection he realizes what a bastard he’s been to Elsa, and how terribly unfair he’s been to you.” Killian leans back against the edge of the tub, drawing her back into his arms until she relaxes against him, her hands folding over his.

 

“I don’t like that I’ve come between you,” she says quietly, her thumb lightly tracing the fading scabs on his knuckles.

 

Killian sighs, his lips brushing against her hair. “While I’m not quite proud of hitting him, I can’t say he didn’t deserve it.”

 

“I told you a long time ago I’m not looking for a knight.”

 

“Aye, I’m aware.” His grip tightens slightly, pulling her just that much closer. “It...it wasn’t entirely about you, love. That argument was a long time coming. If it wasn’t you, it would have been some other bloody thing. Liam never should have said those things about you, and I’ll see to it that you receive the apology you deserve, but I didn’t fancy myself defending your honor. I simply lost my temper.”

 

Emma twists slightly in his arms, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and glancing up. She doesn’t say anything, but she settles back against him, the hiss of the blowing snow joining the sloshing of the water as they grow still. She doesn’t care if Liam ever apologizes to her – in the end, it’s not her he hurt the most, but she suspects Killian already knows that.

 

Eventually, the lingering heat of the water and Killian’s body against hers weighs down her eyelids. Despite the amount she’s slept in the last twenty-four hours, Emma melts into him, not quite asleep, but not fully awake either as his thumb brushes along her ribcage.

 

And when the water grows cool and they drag themselves from the bath, they share a lingering shower to rinse off – at least it starts that way, but leads to kissing sloppily under the spray until Emma finds herself pressed to the tile, Killian at her back, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. She tilts her hips back, her palms flat against the shower wall as he pushes in, and when he nips at her shoulder, she doesn’t bother holding back the breathless moan of pleasure.

 

“I told you it would keep,” Killian mumbles into her back, his forehead resting on the tile beside hers when it’s over and they’re both struggling to breathe. “Fancy a nap, love?”

 

“I think I fancy lunch,” she replies with a laugh, gently pushing him back. “And getting out of this shower before our luck runs out and the power goes.”

 

-x-

 

By nightfall, the power is gone.

 

There’s a break in the storm in the early evening, the winds calming and the snow ceasing, and Emma thinks it’s passed. Killian convinces her to go out, and they bundle into every piece of clothing they can find buried in the depths of closets and drawers. The world is hushed, the snow forming a thick blanket they struggle to make their way through, but Killian kisses her as snow falls from the branches around them and it’s another snapshot in her mind, a tiny, perfect moment she could live in forever.

 

Yet like so many other storms, the systems circles back around for another go, and the rising winds chase them back into the house, clothes soaked from the snow and cheeks red with cold.

 

Killian makes them hot chocolate, and they actually drink it this time, wrapped in the quilt and each other by the fire. The generous measure of rum in each drink helps keep them warm, and it takes Emma a while to realize the hum of the refrigerator has stopped completely, the crackle of the fire the only noise beyond the wind. “Power’s out,” she says softly, as though her voice may disturb their peace if she speaks too loudly. “We should pack the cooler with snow and take everything out of the fridge.”

 

“In a bit. It might come back.” Killian’s arm tightens around her waist, keeping her on his lap. “And I’m far too comfortable to let you go this moment.”

 

Emma hums her agreement, settling back into his arms and watching the flames dance behind the glass door of the woodstove. But the mood has shifted, and by some sixth sense she didn’t know about, Emma can _feel_ Killian’s unease. “What is it?” she asks when he doesn’t say anything on his own, his tight grip on her the only indication something is bothering him.

 

“Nothing, love.”

 

“Don’t lie to me.” It comes out harsher than she intends, but she doesn’t take it back, twisting to look him in the eye. “Tell me if you don’t want to talk about it, but don’t lie and say it’s nothing.”

 

“Perceptive, aren’t you?” He sighs, stroking his hand up and down her back. “I was merely considering how we go about this when we return to Storybrooke. As much as I enjoy being here with you, we’ll have to go back eventually.”

 

“Do we?”

 

He laughs, but his thumb brushes her bottom lip and the intensity returns to his expression. “Aye, love, we do.” His fingers dance along her jaw, threading their way through her hair. “We can’t run away from it. That doesn’t solve anything.”

 

It’s a gentle reproach, and Emma knows she deserves it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Not wanting to look him in the eye for whatever he says next, she drops her forehead to his shoulder, letting her knees sink to either side of his hips and his arms circle her back.

 

“I’ll be moving out of the house,” Killian says when Emma remains silent, one of his hands traveling under her shirt to stroke her skin. There’s a hesitation in his voice, and Emma doesn’t understand it until he adds, “There’s an apartment over the bar we’ve been using as a bit of storage space. I love my brothers, but it's become abundantly clear I require my own living quarters.” He exhales slowly, his voice quieter when he speaks again. “ _We_ require our own space.”

 

“I’ve been looking. Not all of us have conveniently vacant apartments.” She doesn’t mean to snap at him, but her frustration at sharing the loft with her parents at her age simmers along just under the surface, waiting for any reason to boil over. “And I don’t have a job,” she adds, resisting the urge to pick up her head and glare at him. It's easier to be angry with her face in his shoulder, not having to see the sincerity she knows is waiting in his eyes.

 

“If you want your job back, you have to know it’s yours.” Killian nudges her back, holding her captive in his gaze despite her efforts to avoid it. “And when I said _we_ , I meant...I know it’s a tad fast, but I know what I want Emma, and I want _you_.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Move into the apartment with me.” It's barely a whisper of his voice, bright, shining hope staring back at her, the flicker of doubt so well hidden she almost misses it.

 

“Move _in_ with you?” Emma sits back, her arms dropping to her sides. Despite the look on his face, she's certain she must have heard him wrong, that she's jumping to conclusions, but here he is, offering it up to her clear as day.

 

“If you don’t want to, I–”

 

“I want to,” she cuts in, surprising herself with the truth of her answer and how very much she means it. “All those nights I couldn’t sleep, and we ended up down by the docks, I wanted…” She trails off, still not entirely comfortable with spelling out exactly how she feels or exactly what she wants – that there were so many nights he walked her home and Emma almost invited him in, to hell with her parents. But he must be able to see it on her face, because he draws her back in and kisses her, his arms banded tightly around her.

 

“What about Liam?” she can’t help asking when they break apart, the thought nagging in the back of her mind. “Is he going to be okay with it?” They're still close together, lips inches apart, and Emma glances down at her hand on his shirt, curling her fingers just a little bit tighter as though it will be enough to keep him. “He's your brother, Killian. I know he means a lot to you, and Elsa clearly sees something in him. I don’t want to get in between you.”

 

He doesn't answer right away, but when he does he has a question of his own. “If it weren’t for my brother...if you weren’t worried about his reaction, would this have happened earlier?” Killian gestures between them, reaching to push her hair back behind her ear, the firelight glinting in his eyes and burnishing his skin. “Would you have run from me the night of your birthday?” he asks quietly, and a gaping chasm of regret opens at her feet.

 

“Wanting you has never the problem.” Emma leans into his touch, her eyes closing as she sighs. “I...make impulsive choices, sometimes. And then I regret them.”

 

_And I never want to regret you._

 

“Did you regret what happened between us, before...before Liam said those things?” He hesitates before he asks, but he doesn't stop running his fingers through her hair, his touch as gentle as his words.

 

“No,” she says very quietly, shaking her head. “I...was worried that you did.” It’s hard to admit, even now – to let him see all the fears and anxieties that make up Emma Swan.

 

“My only regret is not staying in bed with you and avoiding the entire bloody scene.”

 

“It would have happened eventually.”

 

“You shouldn’t have heard any of that. Liam can be...misguided.” Killian lets out his breath slowly, and she can feel him forcing himself to relax beneath her, muscles loosening. “The lessons we took from our upbringing shaped us quite differently. He...sees it his duty to protect me, despite the fact we’ve grown. I don't defend him, love, but that argument you overheard was not the first between us on the topic.”

 

“You fought about me?” Emma hates how small her voice sounds, how small she _feels_ thinking of the trouble she’s caused him. “Killian, this is exactly what I–”

 

“Hush.” Despite the fact that he cuts her off, his voice is soothing. “I didn't tell you so you could blame yourself, Emma. Those arguments were never about you, not truly. Liam feels life has taken many choices from him – from us – and he lives in terror he’ll make the wrong one. To say I disagree with his approach is quite the understatement.”

 

She listens in silence, her thumb stroking the back of his neck. “And my mother made him hire me,” she finally says, wincing slightly at the reminder of her mother’s tendency to interfere.

 

“Aye, that part is true, though no one has _made_ Liam do anything in a very long time. Your mother is a rather persuasive woman, aye, but you’ve done a fine job all on your own merits.”

 

“Says the man I’m sleeping with,” Emma mumbles against his chest with her head on his shoulder, though she can't resist squeezing her knees around his hips.

 

Killian chuckles, but he doesn't let her dissuade him. “Says the man who cares very deeply for you.” The words are followed by the brush of his lips against her hair, his arm tightening around her.

 

“Okay.” Emma closes her eyes, willing herself not to panic as she admits to herself as much as Killian what it is she wants.

 

“Okay?” he asks tentatively.

 

“Okay, I’ll move into the apartment. With you.” Emma’s breath is shaky, and she doesn’t move from her spot burrowed into his neck. “But only after we talk to Liam. Together.”

 

“Aye, love, together.”


	6. Chapter 6

Liam lets himself into the house with a wince at the creaking door, the usual lingering guilt chasing him inside. It’s early, just after sunrise, but Killian’s truck is in the driveway, and the house is quiet.

 

 _You need to stop doing this, mate_ , he tells himself sternly, reaching blearily for the coffee pot and setting about preparing the morning brew. _Sneaking back home like you’re a bloody teenager is downright shameful._

 

And for a moment, he savors that – that Liam Jones can be just a tiny bit reckless for once in his bloody life – but it’s only a few seconds later that his perpetual guilt settles heavily on his shoulders once more. He shouldn’t be spending the night with Elsa, holed up in her cozy house where the outside world has to wait until morning; he shouldn’t be sneaking around behind his brothers’ backs, either. But as much as he likes her, he doesn’t have room in his life for distractions, and there’s no sense in letting anyone get too attached.

 

Himself included.

 

The creak on the stair alerts him to Killian’s presence moments before his brother’s messy head of hair appears, the rest of him in little better shape shirtless and barefoot. “How are you not bloody freezing?” he mutters as Killian passes.

 

It isn’t until his brother shrugs that Liam catches the relaxed set of his shoulders and the hint of a smile on his lips – Killian practically _glows_ with happiness.

 

And it makes Liam suspicious – and angry. Because here he is, feeling guilty about spending the night with a woman he’s been seeing for months – a good, stable woman with a career and a home and a _life_ – and Killian has been dallying with lord knows who. His money is on Emma Swan, expert at running from life’s problems, and he bitterly reflects on how suited they are to each other. How like Killian to shirk his responsibilities to enjoy himself, never mind that Liam already raised him and they’re supposed to be raising their brother _together_ ; never mind that Killian hasn’t even _tried_ to hide his desires or curb his lust when it comes to Emma, to hell with what impact it has on their brother.

 

“You’re up early,” Killian comments as he shuffles past, and there’s something about the once over he gives Liam that makes him wonder if Killian realizes he’s just getting home. Usually little brother is still quite asleep when Liam arrives back from his evenings with Elsa.

 

But they don’t talk about that, so Liam simply shrugs, leaning back against the counter. “I might say the same for you.”

 

“Just came down for a glass of water.” He says _a_ glass of water, but Killian takes two glasses down from the cabinet. As though he feels Liam’s glare, he turns around with an irritated sigh, fiddling with the glasses. “Emma is here,” he says in a low voice, the water momentarily forgotten as he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, a clean signal he’s preparing for a fight. “It’s not my tale to tell, but she had a rather rough night of it, and I would appreciate it if you would be civil to her.”

 

Liam recognizes the stubborn set of his little brother’s jaw, and he should just nod, let it go – they’ve gone around and around this particular topic, and nothing he says seems to sink in with Killian. But that’s just it; Killian is doing what Killian has always done. Liam is the one who’s had to be responsible, to make sure the mortgage is paid and the orders placed on time with the suppliers. _Liam_ pays their taxes and makes sure the younger Liam has clothes for school.

 

And Killian fucks whatever women he pleases _in their home_ while their kid brother is asleep across the hall.

 

“Tell me, little brother, how did _a rough night of it_ turn into sharing your bed?”

 

“Piss off, Liam. It wasn’t as though I brought her here intending to seduce her. She needed a place to stay for the night. It...happened.” Killian shrugs, as though fucking one of their employees isn’t a complete cock up, and his nonchalance pushes Liam’s buttons like nothing else.

 

“And why did she need a place to stay? Taking off on her parents again, is she?”

 

Killian’s eyes narrow, all pretense of calm vanishing. “I’d advise you against making assumptions when you don’t know one bloody thing about what happened last night. Or Emma.”

 

“How can you be so bloody irresponsible?” Liam snaps, his precarious grip on his temper failing. “What sort of example are you setting for Liam, sneaking all these women into your bedroom in the middle of the night?”

 

“Emma is not _women_ ,” Killian growls back. “If you would stop being such a sanctimonious prick for a bloody—“

 

“I told you, Killian. I told you not to get involved with her. You have responsibilities to this family, and the last thing we need is someone else to take care of. After everything we’ve worked for, I refuse to watch some girl take advantage of you! I didn’t want to hire her in the first place, but her mother insisted, and—“

 

“Watch yourself, mate. I’ve already said you haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.” There’s a dangerous glimmer in his eye, and they’ve had many arguments over the years, but Liam doesn’t remember Killian ever taking such a vicious tone with him.

 

He doesn’t care.

“It wouldn’t be the first time a woman got the better of you,” he taunts. “I’m simply looking out for your best interests, little brother.” It’s condescending, and Liam knows it, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Just once, he wants Killian to consider the consequences of his actions; just once, he wants him to stop being so bloody selfish.

 

“Leave her out of this.” Killian slams his fist against the counter, the forgotten glasses rattling. “You bloody hypocrite! You think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking around yourself? Just because you don’t bring her here doesn’t mean I don’t know about Elsa.”

 

Guilt floods through him all over again, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter if Killian knows. Killian isn’t the one he’s trying to protect. “I _don’t_ bring her here,” he snaps. “No one knows for this exact reason, you fool. Liam has had a hard enough time without rumors about his brothers. And what if he gets attached to one of them and it goes to hell? He already spends enough time with Emma.”

 

“You’re a bloody coward. If you think I have any intention of treating Emma like a dirty secret, you’re out of your fucking mind.” Killian pauses, hatred flashing in his eyes. “This conversation is over. I’m going back to bed. To _Emma_.”

 

“We are not through,” Liam starts, but Killian is already walking away, every muscle in his back rigid with anger. But he hasn’t gotten far when Emma’s quiet voice echoes around the empty staircase.

 

“I quit,” she says, her eyes on Killian, her voice broken. It’s then that she notices Liam, and he watches her lift her chin, the ice in her eyes so similar to the expression Killian leveled at him only moments ago. “Did you hear that?” she demands, her voice sharp and biting. “I quit. I’m not your problem anymore, because I _quit_.” It’s Killian’s reach she shrugs off, but there’s no mistaking Liam is her intended target, her eyes narrowed to vicious green slits.

 

“Emma, wait, I—“

 

“She wants to quit, let her quit,” Liam cuts in, folding his arms and staring at Emma with scorn. Let her hate him; let Killian hate him. It’s for their own good this ends now, before it gets worse. “I hear she’s good at running away from her problems,” he adds, because he’s already being a bastard, so why not pour salt on the wound? He knows enough about Emma’s past from her mother to know that the words will leave a mark, and he’s not wrong.

 

Emma laughs, bitter and choked, but she returns Liam’s scorn in kind. “We all have to be good at something, I guess,” she says, the insult clear as she gives him one parting glare.

 

“Emma!” Killian lunges after her, but Liam is stronger, and he grabs his brother.

 

“Let her go,” he says sternly, his fingers tight on Killian’s arm. “She’s not worth it.”

 

The words haven’t even left his mouth before Kilian’s fist explodes into his jaw.

 

-x-

 

When he tries to cancel their lunch plans, Elsa turns up at his door.

 

“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” she begins, but then her eyes land on his swollen jaw, a bruise already blooming on his chin. “But you sounded off on the phone, and I was right to worry, it seems. What the hell happened?”

 

“Killian,” he says grimly, lifting the bag of frozen peas to his face once more, half to ease the pain in his jaw, and half to hide his relief at finding her on the other side of the door. The last thing he would have done is call her with a fresh bruise blooming on his jaw, especially considering the argument that led to it, but for one brief moment, he savors the peace her presence brings him.

 

“Your _brother_ did that?” Elsa’s shock pitches her voice high, but she shakes her head and sighs, leading him toward the couch. “I can’t say I approve, but from everything I know of him…” She bites her lip, tentatively reaching for him and gently prodding the bruise. “Why?” There’s an undertone in the question, a _what did you do to deserve it_ that Elsa won’t ask but Liam swears he sees lurking in her eyes.

 

“Emma spent the night,” he begins, and he knows he’s treading dangerous waters. Elsa and Emma are close, and though he’s attempted to explain his feelings about Killian being with her, Elsa has never agreed with him. Liam thinks the two of them are a ticking time bomb; Elsa seems to have it in her head that Killian and Emma can somehow be each other’s port in a storm. Even now, his initial statement brings a smile to her face.

 

“I knew it!” But her expression falls as she starts to put things together, and then she’s shaking her head again, her shoulders slumping. “Liam, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

 

“Afraid so.” And then he tells her the whole sordid tale – well, nearly the whole tale. He leaves out the bit about Killian throwing their relationship back in his face; he leaves out the niggling voice telling him his brother has a point.

 

He firmly ignores the thought that for all his arguments against a relationship between Emma and Killian, there’s no question of his younger brother’s devotion to the girl; that for all the nights Liam and Elsa have spent together, he’s never once displayed the sort of fierce loyalty toward Elsa Killian showed at the slightest hint of an insult toward Emma. He’s been so worried about keeping a tight leash on himself, on keeping things from getting too serious, that every time he’s found himself watching Elsa sleep or admiring her smile from across a room, he’s shoved the feeling aside.

 

But when he’s done explaining his morning, Elsa is silent. Somewhere in the middle of the story, she took his hand, and when he stops, she’s staring at their twined fingers. “I…” She takes a deep breath, and then she brings her eyes to his, an odd combination of anger and sympathy residing in their depths. “I care about you. You know I do. But this…” She shrugs, gesturing vaguely, and Liam’s throat tightens. “I’ve tried to give you space when it comes to your family. But if you have that much of a problem with Emma and Killian, I don’t see how this...us…” Her smile is sad as she starts to pull away, her eyes glassy, and lord help him, he was never supposed to get attached to this woman but this _hurts_.

 

“You are not Emma,” he responds instantly, but it’s the wrong thing to say.

 

“No. And you aren’t Killian.” The way Elsa says it, it isn’t a compliment. “Emma is like a sister to me, and you hurt her,” she continues, and it’s obvious by the hard line of her mouth she’s struggling with her anger at him, at the situation – but she doesn’t raise her voice. “The worst part is, I think you _meant_ to hurt her this time. And maybe you didn’t mean it, but you’ve hurt me too. All these months, I’ve tried so hard to see it from your side, to understand how your family has been through so much that you would want to be cautious, that we would take it slow when it came to them. But this just proves to me that’s not at all what you meant – you never _meant_ to make a place for me in your life.” She doesn't yell, though Liam wishes she would; he would take her anger any day over the note of resigned despair that permeates her words and cuts him to the bone.

 

“That’s not true. I–”

 

But she’s already standing, and despite him jumping up to follow her, Elsa isn’t having it. “I have to go, Liam.” It's quietly said, but firm. “I don’t know what exactly it is about Emma that you think isn’t good for Killian, if it’s her past or the bad decisions she’s made along the way, but _I_ know her. And even if she didn’t let it show, quitting this job, walking away from Killian, that broke her. And now I need to go put her back together.” She pauses, her hand already on the doorknob. “And you need to make it right with Killian.”

 

She doesn’t look back when he calls her name, and Liam, coward that he is, doesn’t go after her.

 

-x-

 

The fact that Killian is avoiding him makes it easy to avoid little brother in turn, and for the first time in a long time, Liam doesn’t think about his brothers – he thinks about himself. His disappointments. His pain. His life going down the pisser because of Killian’s reckless choices.

 

And instead of playing on with the band, he crawls into a bottle of whiskey. And then another. And then another.

 

He’s hunched over the kitchen table when Killian bursts through the door, but his brother doesn’t so much as spare him a glance. And that rankles, because who the bloody hell does Killian think he is still being pissed that Liam hurt his precious feelings? Why doesn’t Killian have to pull himself together and just get over it? That’s what Liam’s been doing his entire life.

 

Elsa walked away from him, and you don’t see him going to pieces over it.

 

Liam stumbles up the stairs after Killian, nearly losing his grip on the railing and practically falling into Killian’s bedroom. “Where are you going?” he slurs, seeing the bag open on the bed as his brother hastily throws a pair of jeans into it.

 

“There’s a storm coming,” Killian says without stopping, his tone murderous as he snatches two t-shirts and stuffs them into the bag along with the jeans. “There’s a fucking storm coming, and Emma is two hours north of here in a bloody cabin without cell phone service because of _you_.”

 

“And here you are, chasing after her just like I’m sure she planned.”

 

“Fuck you, Liam.” Killian spares his brother a vicious glare, yanking off his usual black t-shirt from the bar and hurriedly pulling on a clean shirt. “You don’t know a thing about Emma. You haven’t bothered to learn. Get out of my way.”

 

“This is lunacy. What’s to say you won’t get stuck in the storm and–”

 

“Get out of my bloody way, brother. Worry about your own woman, aye? Perhaps after you pull yourself out of the bottle and have a shower,” he adds nastily, picking up his bag. “Liam will be home from school soon. Wouldn’t want to set a bad example for him, would you?” Killian spits out as his parting shot, shouldering past his brother.

 

Liam opens his mouth to argue, to tell Killian he can’t leave, but the words won’t come. Somewhere in the recesses of his drunken mind, Liam begins to realize that maybe Killian has a point – maybe when his brother called him a hypocrite that morning in the kitchen, he was _right_.

 

A cool shower and several cups of coffee help drag him out of the depths of inebriation, but the world is still hazy when the younger Liam comes through the door in a gust of cold air, the scent of snow following him. “You look like shit,” he says without preamble, dropping his backpack into one chair and himself into another. “I went to the bar but it was closed. Where’s Killian?”

 

When Liam can’t summon up an adequate explanation, his youngest brother only shakes his head. “I’ve never met two more stubborn people in my life. I heard you guys fighting, you know. That morning Emma was here. And–”

 

“You knew she was here?”

 

To his surprise, the teenager laughs. “Even if I hadn’t heard you fighting in the morning, I heard them come in late.” He hasn’t yet mastered Killian’s innuendos, but it’s clear from the face he makes that the youngest Jones heard more than the two of them walking up the stairs.

 

The eldest Jones sees red. “You shouldn’t have to–”

 

“Know Emma makes Killian happy?” Liam looks so much like Killian in that moment, his eyes wide and clear and frighteningly honest. “You think he’s setting a bad example bringing her here? I’d rather see my brother happy than trying to hide a relationship he thinks is going to mess me up somehow. C’mon, we have the same father. And I’m not a kid anymore.”

 

Gaping at the lad half his age, Liam struggles with a response. The boy has a point, after all. When Liam was his age, he was listening to his parents alternate between loud fucking and louder fighting. If all their brother overheard was the better half of that equation, was that _really_ such a bad thing? “When did you get so smart?” he asks wearily, dragging his palm over his face and realizing how badly he needs a shave.

 

“While you and Killian were busy fighting about Emma.”

 

“This doesn’t mean you can bring girls home,” Liam warns, doing his best to adopt a stern tone while his head is already beginning to pound. “Killian is...an adult. You have plenty of time yet to grow up.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” The youngest Jones rolls his eyes, grabbing his backpack and heading for the stairs. “I’ve got homework. Will Killian be back for dinner?”

 

“He went to see Emma at her parents’ cabin a couple hours north of here. He...didn’t say when he’d be back, but he took a bag.” Liam pauses, rubbing at his bleary and no doubt bloodshot eyes. “She makes him happy?”

 

The lad eyes him critically, but eventually nods. “If you weren’t so against it, I think you’d see it too. Who are we to judge her for her past? We come from some pretty messed up circumstances.” But when he reaches the foot of the stairs, one hand on the rail, he stops again, a tiny smirk so like Killian’s on his lips. “And Elsa makes you happy. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling when she comes into the bar.”

 

Liam stares at the empty staircase long after his brother has gone upstairs, dumbfounded.

 

-x-

 

“Just call her already.” Liam looks up from his dark phone screen to meet his youngest brother’s critical stare. “Elsa. Have you talked to her?”

 

“No.”

 

“If Killian can drive into a blizzard after Emma, you can call Elsa.”

 

He’s right, of course. But Liam has to make dinner, and ensure littlest brother has finished his homework and has lunch packed for school in the morning. Besides, it’s snowing, and while it isn’t a blizzard, Elsa is likely tucked up in her house in front of the fire. He shouldn’t interrupt her solitude. “It’s supper time. Fancy anything in particular?”

 

Liam rolls his eyes like the teenager he is, pulling his phone out of his pocket and waving it at his older brother. “Killian isn’t coming home. He texted me like an hour ago to say it’s already snowing pretty badly and he’s staying the night. _You_ look like crap, but you should go see Elsa anyway. Maybe she’ll feel bad for you if you grovel enough.” He shrugs, like the matter is already decided, and flops back on the couch. “When I’m hungry, I’ll make a sandwich.”

 

“That’s hardly–”

 

“ _Go!_ ”

 

Eying his younger brother with a mix of concern and wonderment, it takes Liam a minute to realize the lad is right – and that the sting he feels at Killian not bothering to inform _him_ of his whereabouts in a snowstorm is deserved. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he finally says, rising to his feet.

 

“See you in the morning.”

 

Too tired to argue with the kid, Liam hauls himself upstairs for a clean shirt and a dose of aspirin, but still, he hesitates in the doorway, the younger Liam already intently focused on the TV. “Did Killian say anything else?” he finally asks, his fingers rising to nudge at the sore spot on his jaw, the bruise already yellowing.

 

“No. Quit stalling. You can talk to him yourself when he comes back.”

 

 _When he comes back with Emma_ hovers unsaid between them, and Liam swallows hard at the dread the thought conjures, but if his brother is right about anything, it’s that that is a problem for when they return.

 

It’s snowing lightly when he steps outside, the brisk air biting his cheeks as he shoves his hands in his pockets and bends his head against the wind. It’s a fifteen minute walk to Elsa’s, and he probably should have just driven, but he wants the cold air on his face, wants the icy snowflakes to wipe the fog from his mind.

 

He’s honestly surprised when Elsa answers the door, her hair in a long, messy braid with fuzzy, pale blue slippers on her feet. It’s a side of her he rarely sees, but she holds the door wide after only the slightest hesitation. “Come in,” she says softly, but she doesn’t smile. “Leave your boots by the door so you don’t track snow.”

 

Liam nods, his confidence evaporating in the face of her cool reception. He knows full well that he can’t leave half the contents of Storybrooke’s sidewalks all over her house, but there’s something about padding after her in his socks that makes him feel like a young boy about to be scolded.

 

The fact that she leads him into the kitchen to perch on one of the island stools rather than her couch doesn’t help; she couldn’t be more clear about how little she wants him to linger.

 

“I take it you know Killian went after Emma?” she says when he can’t find the right words to begin. Anger simmers along in the question, anger and frustration and something else he can’t quite place. “Ruby went to see him after she and I talked. I knew she would, you see. I would have gone myself, but given the circumstances…” Elsa shrugs, her eyes on the countertop as she fiddles with the end of her braid. “Anyway, why are you here?”

 

“Killian texted Liam to say he was spending the night.”

 

“Good.” She raises her eyes to his finally, but they burn with a savage dare to contradict her. “I hoped they’d get stuck up there together. They’ve been half in love with each other for awhile. They’ll work it out.”

 

“I suppose they will.” Struggling not to fidget, Liam reaches out a hesitant hand, lightly touching Elsa’s fingers. “And us?”

 

“What about _us_?”

 

“Do you think we can work it out?” He swallows hard, his throat inexplicably tight. “Can you...forgive me?”

 

Elsa sighs, but she lets him slip his fingers through hers, eying him thoughtfully as he brushes his thumb against the back of her hand. “Can you accept it’s okay to have your own life?” she finally asks, her wide blue eyes focused entirely on him.

 

“I have a responsibility–”

 

“I’m not saying you don’t,” she cuts in before he can get any further, her frustration sharpening the words. “You and Killian own the bar _together_. Let him take on some of the responsibility of it. Let him help raise your brother. From the little bit I’ve seen, you take on too much, whether because you think you have to, or because you don’t trust Killian for some reason you’re going to need to explain to me.”

 

Liam doesn’t know exactly how to answer her, but he takes a deep breath and tries. “I raised Killian. Our father was useless. And then there we were, both in the military, and I love him, but I was _relieved_ to be done being the adult. We could just be brothers again. His commanding officer was responsible for him. And then that bloody buzzard went toes up, and we discovered Liam, and a part of me was so _angry_ that I had to start all over again, with the homework and the schools and the parent teacher conferences, and…” He stopped, shaking his head and cursing lowly under his breath. “I apologize, love, I–”

 

“Don’t apologize.” Elsa squeezes his hand, her smile wry. “I think that’s the most honest thing you’d ever told me.”

 

“I wouldn’t change it, you understand? If I could go back, I’d choose my brothers every time,” he says fiercely, and he means it. He’s resented the hell out of Killian many times over the years, and he’s hated his father for leaving him this mess, but other than some truly dark moments of despair, he’s never really considered walking away. They’re his family.

 

“I know. I raised my sister after our mother died.”

 

“You never told me that.”

 

“You never asked.” She leans forward, kissing his cheek lightly to take the sting out of her words before sliding off her stool. “I was going to make tea. Would you like some?”

 

Liam starts to say yes, he would like some tea – he would very much like to stay a while, to be welcome in her home again. But he thinks of the teenager alone in the house on a snowy night, and he thinks about Killian storming down the stairs to go chase Emma down to the ends of the earth, and so he tugs lightly on Elsa’s hand to get her to turn back around. “I left my brother alone,” Liam says when he has her attention. “Would you...that is, do you mind...would you like to come over tonight?”

 

“To your house?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

 

“Aye.”

 

“For tea or…?”

 

“For the night,” he says firmly, getting to his own feet and dropping his hands to her hips. “If you want to, that is,” he adds, his confidence waning in her silence despite the way she sways closer.

 

“We’re not done talking about this.” She arches her brow at him, her palms settling lightly on his chest as he pulls her closer. “But we can finish our conversation at your place, sure.” Elsa stretches onto her toes, her lips gently brushing against his, and it’s fast, and there’s hardly anything sexual about it, but he feels her touch over every inch of his skin. “Just let me change and grab a few things.”

 

Liam nods, releasing her and watching her go. She hesitates in the doorway, turning back to smile shyly at him, and tonight won’t be the tenth or the hundredth time he’s shared a bed with her, but there’s something about this night that feels an awful lot like a first time.

 

And it won’t be the last.

 

-x-

 

After they’ve shared a simple dinner with a smug teenager, the younger Liam retreats to his bedroom with a smirk for his brother, and Elsa makes good on her promise. And though Liam has dreaded this, returning to the subject of his anger and treatment of Emma, once they start talking, it really isn’t so hard to keep going.

 

He’s been involved with Elsa for nearly six months, but in that time, they’ve rarely spoken of anything serious. It’s Liam’s fault, really – his insistence they keep things casual, his refusal to open his heart to her. But faced with losing her, it’s obvious that all of his efforts to hold her at arm’s length haven’t really worked, because now that she’s here, in his home, holding his hand while he pours out a decade’s worth of guilt and grief and frustration, he’s glad of it.

 

And maybe it’s because Elsa knows what it’s like to raise a sibling – though her sister’s solution to their parents’ passing veers toward unfailing optimism where Killian has always been prone to brooding and self destruction – or maybe it’s because in all these months of sharing a bed, Liam has revealed a part of himself he thought well hidden, but never once does he feel Elsa is judging him. It’s clear she doesn’t like how he’s behaved toward Emma, and the deeper into the night they go, and the longer they talk, even Liam has to acknowledge he hasn’t exactly given the lass a fair shake.

 

“I understand she’s your friend, love, but...try to see it from my side of things. The last time Killian gave his heart away, I spent months trying to piece him back together. Even you have to admit your friend doesn’t present the most secure of futures.”

 

Elsa sighs, releasing his hand and leaning back into the couch cushions. Her feet are tucked up next to her, and if it weren’t for the furrow of her brow, she would make a cozy picture. “From where I sit, neither does your brother,” she finally says, holding up her hand as Liam starts to protest. “But I’ve never held it against him, because I think he understands Emma in a way neither of us ever will. She’s different with him.

 

“You never met him, but Neal was a black hole in her life – he sucked all of the light from her, kept it for himself, but still, there was this pull he had on her. Emma loved him, but in that way where he was the center of her universe and all he did was take and take. She lost pieces of herself, you know? And I was really worried she’d never get them back.

 

“But when she’s with Killian, he looks at her like she’s the sun and the stars. He wants her to be the light, so he can share it, so he can be there _with_ her. She _smiles_ , Liam, and she laughs, and she’s so much more like the Emma before Neal. Did Killian tell you about her birthday?”

 

Liam shakes his head, letting out a slow breath. “It’s been some time since Killian has shared much of anything with me.”

 

“Then I’ll tell you. Ruby and I, we tried to convince her to take the night off, to go out with us down in Portland like we used to. Just to have a fun night. And she said no – because she didn’t want to ask for the night off. She didn’t want Killian to know it was her birthday, because she didn’t want him to do anything special for her. But Ruby being Ruby, he found out anyway, and he somehow found a muffin and a candle after closing up for the night.”

 

“Liam likes them for breakfast. He probably picked up a bag at the bakery before coming to the bar.”

 

“Either way, that stupid muffin? That was more than Neal ever did for her. That’s the kind of relationship she came out of. She’ll kill me for telling you, but she came home with a black eye, and she’s never admitted he did it, but I know Emma. If she did it to herself, she’d have told me, and she’d have laughed about it. So you’re going to have to cut her a little slack for being skittish about trusting someone with her heart again.”

 

“Is her birthday just before Halloween?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

Liam laughs quietly, scrubbing his palm over his face and smiling wryly at Elsa. “Killian has looked at her like she’s a storm he’d happily sail into since the day he pulled her out of the harbor, but it wasn’t until just before Halloween she started looking at him the same way. I wondered what changed.”

 

“He proved how much he cared,” Elsa says softly, lifting her eyes to his. “It’s one thing to be wanted. Wanted is nice. But to be cared for…” She shrugs, her smile tinged with melancholy. “I don’t know what happened that she ended up at your house that night with him, but knowing Emma, something had to have triggered it, made her feel safe with him. To wake up in the morning and have the rug pulled out from under her...I don’t blame her for taking off.”

 

“I suppose when you put it that way.” He sighs, hesitantly reaching for Elsa, uncertain if she’ll accept his touch in that moment, but she curls into him, leaning her head on his shoulder as he folds her into his side. “Is it so terrible I don’t want to see Killian hurt again?”

 

“No, not at all. But it’s not fair to Emma if your way of trying to protect him is to lash out at her. She’s been told she’s not good enough by plenty of people without you adding to it. Whatever happens between them, it’s between _them_ , Liam.”

 

“And what happens between us?” he asks after a pause, toying with the end of her braid.

 

“What do you want to happen between us?”

 

“Did you ever feel...as though I thought you were...Killian accused me of treating you as a dirty secret.”

 

Elsa doesn’t pull away, but he can feel her nod against his shoulder. “Yeah,” she whispers, her voice tight. “I don’t think you meant it, but it was hard not to feel that way, sometimes.”

 

“Bloody hell. I never meant–”

 

“I know.”

 

“Why did you...why didn’t you say something?”

 

“Because if something was going to change, it needed to be because you wanted it to, not because I guilted you into it,” she explains quietly, leaning back to look him in the eye. “So do you?”

 

“I don’t want you to ever feel as if I’m ashamed of being with you.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

“I thought it a bit obvious, but I suppose after everything, I should be clear – I want to be with you, not just a few nights a week in your bedroom, but in front of my family and your friends. I’ll never...I’m not Killian. I’ll never be as...obvious...as he is with his affections, but I’ve been falling in love with you for a long time, Elsa. And I don’t want to stop.”

 

Liam catches a flash of her nod, her eyes shimmering in the low light, and then she kisses him. There have been a lot of kisses between them – needy, desperate things, the result of desires and lusts – but this is different. The need is there, but the desperate edge has been smoothed over, and as Elsa slips onto his lap, Liam can feel her smile against his lips.

 

-x-

 

_Emma and I are moving into the apartment above the bar. Don’t be a prick about it._

 

Liam blinks blearily at his cell phone in the early morning light, the message time stamped late the night before. Beside him, Elsa stirs, one blue eye cracking open to squint at him. “What time is it?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep as she snuggles closer, warm and soft against him.

 

“Just after seven,” he answers distractedly, stabbing at his phone screen to call Killian as he fully sits up, sod it being so early. Of course, his brother’s phone goes directly to voicemail. “Call me the moment you get this,” Liam barks into the phone, hanging up and belatedly remembering he’s been told there’s no service at Emma’s cabin.

 

“What’s the matter?” Elsa’s voice is still groggy, but she finds his hand and laces their fingers together. Beneath the quilts, she’s warm, snug against him in one of his old Navy t-shirts and nothing else.

 

“Killian sent me a bloody text saying he and Emma are moving into the apartment over the bar.” He sighs, tossing his phone onto the nightstand and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Three days ago he was chasing her to the ends of the earth and now they’re bloody moving in together? Into an apartment that’s half bloody mine with no discussion? Bloody irresponsible–”

 

“Liam.”

 

“We’ve been talking of renting the space as a source of income for Liam’s college fund. And Killian thinks he can just–”

 

“Liam!” Elsa’s sharp tone gets his attention, and it’s then that he notices she’s drawn herself up against the headboard, the quilt pooled at her hips and the t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. “Take a breath, all right?” When he nods, she offers him a small smile, laying her hand on his forearm and brushing her thumb against his skin. “Now, are you upset because they’re moving in together, or because Killian made a decision about a property you own together without consulting you?”

 

“Both. He doesn’t _think_ sometimes, and it’s–”

 

“Okay, but which one of those arguments do you think you have a prayer of winning without ruining your relationship with your brother?” Elsa reaches one hand up to the nearly faded bruise on Liam’s jaw, lightly grazing his skin. “You’re not his father, Liam. I know you’ve felt like you have been, but you’re his brother, and he loves Emma. Think about who your brother is.”

 

“I’m not allowed a bloody opinion because he loves her?”

 

“You’re allowed whatever opinion you like – but berating Killian over this choice is not going to get you anywhere, and I think you know that.”

 

Liam reluctantly nods, taking a long, deep breath and leaning his head back against the bed. “He still should have consulted me about the sodding apartment.”

 

“And you can tell him that – calmly, when he’s back in town, without insulting Emma or his choice to be with her.” Despite Elsa’s mild tone, Liam can hear the warning in her voice. They’ve talked about it a few times over the course of the last several days, and while he’s still hesitant to trust her friend with his brother’s heart, he’s come to understand that Elsa accepts his reservations are his own, but she won’t have him upsetting Emma any more than he already has.

 

As if she can hear his thoughts, Elsa adds, “And you can tell him that you think it’s fast, that you’re worried Emma will hurt him, but when he tells you that he disagrees, you need to leave it be, Liam. I think you’re wrong about them, and you already know that, but if you’re right, if it falls apart, don’t you want Killian to feel like he can talk to you without getting a lecture?”

 

“Why do you make so much bloody sense?” he asks, shaking his head at himself and looping his arm around Elsa’s shoulder, tugging her close enough to press a kiss to her temple and toy with her loose locks. It’s rare for her not to have her hair tamed by a braid or some other restraint, and Liam can’t help but savor these moments where it all falls around her shoulders in bright tumbles.

 

“Because you love me,” she says lightly, tilting her head back with a sparkle in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. He hums his agreement, leaning down to kiss her, and for a little while, Liam loses himself in Elsa, his confession the night before wrapped around them snug as any quilt.

 

And maybe it’s because he’s finally admitted to himself as much as to her that he _does_ love her, that the last six months haven’t been just about their time between the sheets as much as he wanted to believe – that the early morning coffees and late night dinners and quiet nights curled together watching movies, they all meant something more than he’d wanted to admit.

 

Or maybe it’s because in accepting that he wants a relationship with Elsa, he’s accepting what she’s been trying to tell him the last few days – that Liam can have a life outside of his responsibilities for the youngest Jones, that he doesn’t need to, and shouldn’t, constantly watch over Killian’s shoulder.

 

But whatever it is, when Killian walks through the door several days later, his jaw tight and wariness in his eyes, Liam forces his shoulders down and his posture loose. “Where’s Emma?” he asks as his brother closes the door behind him.

 

“At her parents’ loft. She wanted to speak to them on her own.” Killian hesitates, and it’s hard for Liam to keep his face impassive as he watches his brother scratch behind one ear, a nervous tell he’s had all his life. “We intended to speak to _you_ together. I thought you’d be doing inventory...or whatever it is you’ve been up at this hour.”

 

Liam nods, his glance sweeping over Killian as he ignores the jab. Despite the tension radiating off him, little brother looks otherwise good – at peace. “I wanted to be here when you got home. Look, about the apartment, I–”

 

It’s as though Killian’s fuse has been lit since before he walked in the door, and at the mere mention of the apartment, he explodes. “You’ve got some bloody nerve–”

 

“Allow me to finish, please.” Liam waits for Killian’s nod, shoving his hands in his pockets before continuing, “I _do_ think it’s a bit fast. I don’t suppose you’d consider waiting until the spring?”

 

“No. Emma doesn’t feel welcome here, and frankly, I’m not certain I do, either.” Killian folds his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed and shoulders high.

 

“That’s hardly true. Of course you’re welcome here. It’s your home.”

 

“And Emma?”

 

Liam nods, swallowing against his apprehension. “Emma too.”

 

“You owe her an apology.”

 

“I do.”

 

Killian eyes him skeptically, his surprise at Liam’s easy agreement obvious. “You’ve changed your mind all of a sudden?”

 

He expected his brother’s disbelief, and though Liam hardly wants to drag up the past, he knows that honesty is the only way out of this. “It’s been my job to protect you since we were kids, little brother. Emma...Emma is a wild card. She could be the best thing that ever happens to you, or she could break your heart. You’ve had enough disappointments to last a lifetime.” Taking a deep breath, Liam offers Killian a tentative smile. “But, as a wise woman recently told me, I’m not your father. I’m your brother, and if you believe Emma is the key to your happiness, then I will keep my reservations to myself moving forward.”

 

“You don’t know her like I do,” Killian says quietly, and Liam is surprised to hear a hint of awe in his voice when he speaks of Emma, a bewildering wonder that has become frighteningly familiar in his own heart. “Besides that, things between her and I...she didn’t want to come between us. If not for you...this would have happened a lot sooner.” His tone has lost most of its bite, but Killian isn’t subtle about his bitterness at Liam’s role in all of this.

 

“She told you that?”

 

“I already suspected. She confirmed.” Killian sighs, dropping his bag at his side and leaning back against the door. “Sometimes, you have to take a chance on people, Liam. Think with your heart instead of worrying so bloody much all the time. Things sort themselves out, eventually.”

 

“I’m working on that.”

 

His brother’s eyes sweep over him, and his lips curve into a tiny smirk. “Elsa?”

 

Liam nods, unable to suppress his smile. “I suppose in a manner of thinking, I owe you thanks. If not for our...disagreement...I might have continued on in a similar manner with her until things were well beyond repair.”

 

To his surprise, Killian simply laughs. “You’ve got to be blind not to see how she looks at you. I’m certain there’s very little she wouldn’t forgive.”

 

“And you?”

 

“Consider yourself forgiven. Now, about the apartment…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was by special request for the lovely lenfaz. We'll be jumping back to CS POV for the last chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one shot for a follower appreciation winner on Tumblr and got completely out of hand. Sorry?
> 
> @lenfaz made some beautiful photosets that go along with this, which are on my Tumblr page. Huge thanks to @evil--isnt--born for beta duties!


End file.
